Assassin's Silence: A David Slaton Novel (38 page)

Her eyes were riveted.

“It
was
war—has been for as long as you and I have been on this earth. But you want specifics?”

“I want to understand. I’ve seen David stare for an hour at a painting in the National Gallery. I’ve seen him do stonework that’s nearly a work of art. But I’ve glimpsed his other side too. When he’s on a mission … there’s something different about him. He’s so focused and relentless, almost like a machine.”

“That’s how you have to be, at least if you want to survive.”

“I’ve had that briefing. But I’d like you to go through one mission for me. Tell me what he did.”

He drew a deep breath. “All right. I won’t try to convince you how deserving our target was. If a mission reached David, any moral or ethical questions had been finalized. A
kidon
has to trust that, which in itself is no easy thing. There was one time David and I were assigned to go after a man who—”

“Did he have a name?”

Stein hesitated. “Jameel. If there was a first name I don’t remember it.”

She nodded.

“He was a guy who had good reason to think Mossad might be after him. Because of it, he was careful, and they had a hard time locating him. So Mossad came up with a scheme. They arranged a bit of legal mischief and Jameel’s cousin, who was imprisoned and awaiting trial, was released, ostensibly by error, from Shikma Prison in Ashkelon. Mossad tracked him for weeks, and eventually he led them to a safe house in Mughazi, near Gaza. An advance team got a glimpse of Jameel, confirmed it with a photograph. He apparently had been staying there for some time, so David was given his orders.”

Stein paused, but Christine did not ask what those orders were.

“He and I went in, along with a woman named Sonya. We set up shop, a one-room flat in a nearby building, three floors above the apartment we were watching. Remember—we’re talking the Gaza Strip, which is strictly enemy territory. None of us left the room, and for six days we watched Jameel’s apartment. There was one main window, and we saw him once or twice, but only for a moment—the blinds were almost always drawn. The only other thing we had was a marginal audio feed from a directional microphone. There was never a clear opportunity for David to shoot, but we did notice one thing—this safe house had a single bathroom. We had a good angle on that window, although there was a thin curtain that never moved. When anyone used the toilet, David could use a particular scope and site in clearly on the head of the person using it. We kept careful logs, because that’s what you do in a surveillance op—track when everyone wakes up, eats, has intimate relations.”

“And when they go to the bathroom.”

“Exactly. Your target will be there sooner or later—unmoving and unworried. For six mornings in a row, between eight forty and nine fifteen, someone sat on that toilet, and stayed there for between six and eight minutes. Of course, all David saw through his scope was a silhouette—no way to be sure it was Jameel, but we were reasonably sure he was the only inhabitant who never left the apartment. There were between three and five other people inside at any given time, some rotating in and out as guards, others arriving occasionally for tea-and-strategy sessions. Some of them used the toilet sporadically, of course, but that one constant remained. Every morning. Same time. Same place.”

“And on the seventh morning?”

“Before sunrise we were packed and had the room cleaned. Two cars were in place outside. Sonya and I were out by eight. At 9:02 David struck. He took one shot, broke down his gun, and we were all across the border fifteen minutes later.”

“And was this mission a success?”

“Did we get Jameel? No, we didn’t.”

“David missed?”

Stein chuckled. “David doesn’t miss. That same morning a second surveillance team was still tracking Jameel’s cousin, the man we had released from prison. Turns out he’d gone to the safe house that morning—we eventually learned, to deliver a message from a rival militia he’d become affiliated with. We never saw the cousin go in because we couldn’t see all the building’s entrances, and the other team didn’t report it until later—they had no idea we were across the street.”

“And that’s who David killed?”

Stein nodded. “It might have been random chance. Or it might have been that Jameel’s people knew we were there. Maybe they thought the cousin had been turned as an informant. We could never say for sure how or why any of it ended the way it did. As it turned out, Jameel was killed three weeks later, ambushed by a rival faction in Gaza.”

“More revenge?”

“Who knows?”

Stein began reassembling his weapon, his movements confident and familiar. It again reminded her of David, who seemed too sure of himself, she sometimes thought, as if he could never imagine a mistake. Never imagine losing. And he’d loved her in the same way.

Stein put the weapon in his backpack and hung it high on a coat hook, holding to their agreement to keep the gun out of Davy’s reach. “I know you want to understand the world David lived in,” he said, “but there
is
no understanding it. There are barbarians out there, Christine, people who are the personification of evil. When you fight them, there can never be a clean victory. You don’t raise your flag on a hill or sign an armistice.”

“But where does it end?”

“That’s the problem—it never will. At least not for Israel. But I can tell you that my part is done. The only reason I’m here today is because I owe David. As far as Mossad goes, I’d never have anything to do with them again. Even if I
could
walk in a straight line.”

“And David? When this is done, do you think he can put it all behind him?”

“For everyone’s sake, let’s hope so. The next time you see him, you should convince him of that. Tell him he has to leave the past where it is and move on.”

FIFTY-FIVE

Slaton watched Donnelly burn through three cigarettes while he covered everything from Malta to Beirut. The only thing he left unaddressed was his relationship to America—in particular, his wife and child. The CIA had facilitated his initial move to the United States, but it was a carefully crafted identity known to only a few individuals in the agency. That legend, in the name of Edmund Deadmarsh, had long ago been blown, the supporting documents sunk into a deep and dark body of water. To rekindle that relationship here, he knew, risked disclosing his true identity. Which in turn, created but one more path to his family.

Slaton ended his story at a storage room on Geitawi Boulevard.

“What did you find inside?” Donnelly asked.

“WMD.”

The acronym instigated a pause, and Slaton watched the CIA man scan the room. He’d done so regularly since arriving, which Slaton took as damning evidence of a long career in the field. More positively, it suggested that Donnelly’s security team was not in direct line of sight. “Weapons of mass destruction? Your message said that was in Aadra—we have a team on the way there now.”

“That’s where the material was initially discovered, and there’s still plenty of evidence—enough to convince you how serious this is.”

“Where exactly do we look? And what kind of threat are we talking about?”

Slaton set on the table one of the three plastic-encased dosimeters he’d taken from the storage room. He had cut away the bottom lip, the identity strip where Dr. Moses Nassoor’s name had been printed. In time he was sure the Americans would discover where it had come from. He was equally sure that Nassoor would face some manner of justice for what he’d done. That was out of Slaton’s hands.

“I found three like this in the storage closet. Check the readings. The material is cesium-137. It was brought to Geitawi from a farm outside Al Qutayfah, Syria.” Slaton added a description of the dirt path and rail tracks near Route 7. “Behind the main house your team will find a workshop, and all around it are traces of this isotope.”

“Traces?”

“Clear evidence of a release. Cesium-137 has medical and industrial uses, but large quantities are commonly used to irradiate food. Its half-life is thirty years—your team should use protective gear. Twenty months ago there was an outbreak of ill health in Aadra caused by this material. The health system failed—it never made the correlation. As an aside, if I was the CIA I might consider some kind of training program. Primary-care physicians in this part of the world ought to be able to recognize radiation sickness.”

“I’ll put that in my after-action report,” said Donnelly dryly. “What else?”

“First let’s talk about what I want in return.”

“I’m listening.”

“I need information. And certain guarantees.”

“Guarantees? You think you can just give a note to a Marine sentry and expect the CIA to jump through—”

“I am rescuing you,” Slaton broke in, “from a
catastrophic
intelligence failure. I believe this material will be used in a radiological attack. Right now neither of us knows who we’re dealing with or what their intentions are, but we have to assume that time is of the essence.”

“Do you think this cesium will be used against Israel?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“So why didn’t you go to Mossad with this? Even if you no longer work for them, I’m sure you have connections.”

“I think this entire disaster was sourced from a series of Mossad screwups. I don’t trust them right now. In truth, I haven’t for a long time.”

“So the CIA is your backup intelligence service?”

“We have common interests. This group has killed two innocent people, and established themselves as a threat to me personally. I think we’re looking at a gray cell, an op that isn’t state sponsored, at least not overtly. I tracked the last man I know about to Geitawi where he picked up this material, and I think he’s transporting it as we speak. His name is Zan Ben-Meir, an Israeli national. I’m also certain there are others involved. I want you to find out who they are. I want you to tell me
where
they are.”

Donnelly stabbed his fourth cigarette into an ashtray. His fingers tapped on the side of his mug. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. You think that if the CIA can verify what you’re saying, if we can identify who’s involved, that we’ll serve them up to you on a platter?”

“If you want quick and quiet closure … yes.”

Ever so slightly, Donnelly shifted in his seat.

Slaton said, “My offer is not open-ended. Give me good information, and I’ll finish this. I expect a decision from Langley within one hour. Your acceptance of my terms will come by way of the CIA director’s press release.”

“What press release?”

“The one he’s going to issue sixty minutes from now. It will include the phrase, ‘We have an agreement in principle.’ I don’t care what the balance of the text reads—he can be announcing a new Far East initiative or a bid for office supplies. Use your imagination. I’ll verify the issuance and subtext on the CIA website.”

Donnelly frowned. “And if Langley agrees? How do we get in touch with you?”

“By calling your phone.” He held out his hand.

With a weary sigh, Donnelly reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a smartphone, and pushed it across the table.

“Password?” Slaton asked. Donnelly gave it to him, and he typed seven characters into the security screen. The phone was ready to work. He scanned the various icons. “Which is the tracking app?” he asked.

Donnelly showed him. Slaton tapped the symbol and within seconds had the signal disabled. He guessed this was the only beacon, but there was no way to ask and expect a truthful answer. On a more positive note, he saw an application that looked familiar and might be of great use later.

Donnelly said, “You realize that as long as it’s powered up anybody can track it like a regular phone.”

“Of course,” Slaton said, turning the phone off. “Once I have confirmation that we’re working together, I’ll turn the phone back on. I expect to see a direct contact number for Langley. And I’ll be expecting information.”

An irritated Donnelly looked out across the street. “What if I told you I had ten agents outside ready to close in?”

“I’d say you’re a liar. It would be like me telling you that I had a silenced Beretta under the table.”

Donnelly looked at Slaton’s half-hidden right arm. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. He asked, “What exactly did you do for Mossad?”

Slaton got up from the seat with one hand still in his jacket pocket. He removed it to produce a ten-euro note, which he dropped on the table. “I think that’s obvious enough.”

*   *   *

“It’s him,” Sorensen said. “Mdina, Zurich, Wangen. Everything checks. This is definitely our Maltese stonemason.” She was addressing Director Coltrane in his Langley office, Jack Kelly at her side as they went over the message from the Beirut station.

Kelly said, “I don’t like the bit about, ‘one each to my credit.’ It’s almost like he’s bragging about killing these men.”

Coltrane stood in rumination before a very high-tech window that overlooked a sleeping forest of leafless elm and chestnut trees. He said, “No, he’s giving us a character reference—such as it is.”

The Operations Center had been humming with activity since the letter from Beirut arrived, and things accelerated after Donnelly’s meeting with the Israeli.

“What about the Barclays account?” the director asked.

Sorensen said, “We have a good contact at the bank—or more accurately, MI-5 does. It’s a large private account, roughly sixty million U.S. dollars. It was managed by Walter Krueger—the banker who was killed in Zurich last week. The funds have been in place for over a year with very little activity, but in the last few days there have been some changes.”

“What kind of changes?” Coltrane asked distractedly, still facing the window.

“The money was cashed out of a diverse portfolio and reinvested much more narrowly—everything is now in oil. Refining, exploration, drilling leases. Somebody went all-in.”

“Do we know who that ‘somebody’ is?”

“That was the other strange thing. The account was originally established as an offshore trust, but a few days ago the ownership was altered. Everything was put into the name of one individual.” Sorensen referenced a printout to make sure she got it right. “The new owner of record is named David Slaton.”