The Peace Killers Page 12

‘Moy droog!’ Zeb winced and held the phone away from his ear when the Russian’s voice boomed in his phone. ‘You have forgotten me.’

  ‘Grigor, you got to go easy on the vodka, especially this time of the morning.’ It was just eleven am and Andropov never drank while in the office, but it was a standing joke between them.

  ‘Where are you, and how did you remember me?’

  ‘Israel,’ Zeb answered, knowing the spymaster would have triangulated his location from his call. ‘Don’t ask why. I need to know about an FSB agent, one Peter Raskov.’

  ‘That’s a mess, those killings. I bet Avichai’s back is to the wall.’

  ‘I haven’t met him, Grigor,’ Zeb lied smoothly.

  ‘I hope you find those killers soon,’ Andropov said, ignoring him. ‘The longer they are out there, the more damage they can do.’

  That fox. He’s connected the dots just by my presence in Jerusalem and my call.

  ‘Grigor,’ he sighed theatrically, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Peter Raskov. Have you heard of him?’

  Andropov turned serious immediately. ‘No, but then, FSB’s got several agents. I don’t know all of them. You’re sure he’s one of theirs?’

  ‘That’s what I have been told. I want to know if he is FSB, where he is currently and what he’s up to.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you. Take care, droog,’ his voice turned sly, ‘and save the world.’

  The U.S. had an uneasy relationship with Russia and the intelligence agencies in the two countries weren’t friendly. However, Zeb’s friendship with Andropov went beyond national ties. Their bond had been forged over several black-ops missions, and the two kept a channel open, frequently exchanging intel that might help both. It also helped that he had saved Grigor’s life on a few occasions.

  Zeb logged in to his screen and smiled when he read the message from Levin.

  ‘Thick? Heavyset? You should have given me advance notice. You were wearing another disguise when with Carmel and Dalia. I blindly said yes when Navon called. By the way, I asked you to investigate my operatives. Not damage them.’

  ‘It looks like Mossad’s training lacks one vital piece. I did you a favor. I completed that for Yakov,’ he messaged back.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I taught him manners.’

  Levin responded with a string of curses.

  Zeb’s smile faded when he saw the email from Clare. It had Alice Monash’s flight details.

  Lands at Ben Gurion at seven pm. Which means I’ll have to leave Jerusalem at about five-thirty. I still don’t know how I am going to investigate all remaining kidon before the press conference.

  He glanced at his watch. Twelve pm. Maybe he could squeeze in another operative before he met the ambassador.

  * * *

  Zeb went with the heavyset man disguise. Eliel and Navon might inform the other operatives how I look.

  He went out to street level and took a moment to orient himself. Musrara was where he wanted to be. The neighborhood nestled between the Russian Compound, Meah Shearim and the Old City. It had stone streets, some of them embedded with ornate marble designs, houses of differing architecture, modern juxtaposed with the old.

  Half an hour later he was at a large grocery store in the neighborhood. He took a metal shopping cart and wheeled it inside, searching the various aisles like other customers.

  Levin’s files were incredibly detailed. They had the daily routines for each of the kidon when they were off missions.

  Meir, the operative Zeb was looking for, visited that particular store every day at noon when he was in Jerusalem. He was one of the few kidon who had a partner, a girlfriend.

  Zeb spotted him near the deli counter. Closely cropped hair, watchful eyes, dressed in white tee and loose trousers. A woman beside him. They were eating olives from a sampling plate, their teeth flashing as they conversed and laughed.

  I can’t do anything here. Not with her around.

  No innocents to be involved. That was a rule he rarely crossed.

  As Zeb watched, Meir drank from a bottle of water and handed it to his girlfriend. She glugged from it, capped it and tossed it in their basket.

  That gave him an idea.

  There was no label on that bottle. Plastic, small, nothing distinguishable about it.

  He wheeled his cart closer to them and randomly tossed several items into it. Their backs were to him when he passed them, their trolley to his right. He glanced swiftly and assessed the bottle. Yeah, no label. He got an idea of the water level and went to the drinks aisle.

  He scanned the shelves and finally found a bottle that looked identical to Meir’s. He parked his cart in a corner, went to checkout and paid for his bottle. He went outside and stripped it of its label. Unscrewed its top and drank until the level was close to what the kidon had.

  He removed a soluble tracker from his backpack and dropped it in the bottle. Shook it rapidly to dissolve and waited for the water to clear.

  He went back inside, retrieved his cart and went to the deli section. Meir and his friend were still at the olives plate, but now were sharing a pastry. Zeb rolled his cart over to theirs and leaned over their shoulder.

  ‘Can you reach that for me?’ he asked Meir, pointing toward a slice of cake that was beyond his reach.

  ‘Sure,’ the kidon replied and leaned forward. For a moment, Meir and his girlfriend were distracted, which was when Zeb switched bottles.

  ‘Toda,’ he thanked the operative. Went to the counter, paid for the slice, and ate it messily.

  The couple averted their eyes and strolled away. No one wanted to see a clumsy eater and even hardened operatives disregarded such persons as a threat.

  Zeb wiped his fingers on a paper towel and threw it in the bin. He pushed his cart and, as he was overtaking them, burped noisily.

  He watched Meir and his companion discreetly as he paid for his shopping. Was gratified when both drank some more water, paying no attention to its container.

  Once back in his room, two more green dots appeared on his screen.

  He could now enter Meir’s apartment when the kidon was away.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ben Gurion Airport, Jerusalem

  Two days after Assassinations

  Nine Days to Announcement

  * * *

  The U.S. military Gulfstream touched down at exactly seven pm and taxied to a secluded part of the airport, the one reserved for celebrities and government dignitaries.

  Alice Monash climbed down the stairs, escorted by two men in suits, and entered the airport complex. There were Israeli security personnel present, but no other travelers. She scanned the concourse quickly, her eyes settling on a lean, brown-haired man.

  ‘Zeb?’ she went to him.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He shook her hand firmly and checked out the suits, who hung back.

  ‘They’re returning,’ she followed his look. ‘The president insisted on sending them along.’

  ‘Don’t you have a security detail with you, normally?’

  ‘Yes. Clare must have told you. You are my protection.’

  It’s a long flight from home; she must be tired. But I can’t put this off any longer.

  ‘Ma’am, do you want to get some coffee?’

  They went to an espresso outfit in the arrivals hall, and with the suits giving them privacy ordered their drinks and made their way to a corner table.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say.’ She held a hand up when he opened his mouth. ‘I am not here to make your job difficult. But, this is the only way I could meet you. Do you know how many times I tried?’

  ‘Clare told me. Daniel, as well.’ Daniel Klouse, the national security advisor, was a friend.

  ‘Why were you avoiding me?’

  ‘I wasn’t, ma’am,’ he protested. ‘I’ve been on various operations.’

  ‘You couldn’t get one day to meet?’

  ‘Ma’am—’

  ‘Zeb C
arter,’ she leaned forward, her eyes intense, boring into his. ‘Tom and I, we are grateful that you were there. We know you did everything possible that evening—’

  He looked away, memories flooding back.

  Five years ago, he had been in Thailand, taking a break from Agency work. Just him and the rugged mountains of the country. He had trekked in the Chiang Mai province of northern Thailand, had spent nights with villagers. TVs and cell phones were extraordinary luxuries for many of them.

  Three weeks later he had returned to Bangkok, where he would catch his flight. He had traveled to the city the night before his departure and was exiting Chong Nonsi BTS Station when he heard loud reports from a nightclub.

  Zeb knew what gunfire sounded like. His fears were proven true when the venue’s doors burst open seconds later and revelers flooded out in panic. Young, many of them teenagers.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he stopped a runner.

  ‘GUNMEN!’ the man cried, ‘GET AWAY. THEY GOT HOSTAGES.’

  Zeb went inside. He knew it was foolhardy, but he had the element of surprise on his side. The shooters would expect everyone to flee, not for someone to enter the club.

  He struggled through the crowd as more reports sounded and screams rocked through the building.

  A long corridor, lined with candles and drapes, many of which were torn and lay on the floor. The sound of beats reverberating. It didn’t look like anyone had turned off the music.

  ‘How many?’ he yelled above the noise, at a tearful woman.

  ‘Two, three, I don’t know,’ she screamed back. ‘Why are you going inside?’

  He didn’t answer. Doesn’t look like they’re stopping the escapees. What’s their intention?

  He heard loud voices ahead. The sounds of crying and sobbing, above whatever track was playing. In the distance he could hear sirens wailing.

  The corridor opened suddenly to a large, open area. Several bodies on the floor. Motionless. Dark stains. Clubbers jammed at the mouth of the corridor. Struggling to run away. Three men on a podium, holding what looked like AKs. Strobe lights painting the inside in dark colors.

  ‘Surrender…government…’ a gunman screamed, most of his words swallowed by the music and the sounds of desperate people escaping.

  No coordination among the three, Zeb observed. Two bodies at the feet of two of the gunmen. They were shooting randomly, sometimes at the ceiling, occasionally into the panicked mob.

  Even as he watched, a shooter opened fire at the corridor.

  Screams filled the air. Zeb dived to the floor, feet stomping over him. He struggled to get his Glock out from its holster and peered between legs. The weapon and several spare mags were standard gear for him, wherever he went.

  The shooting stopped. A gunman laughed. Went over to another and high-fived him. The crowd was thinning. Maybe fifty or so left at the mouth, bodies on the floor slowing them down. He wouldn’t have any cover once the last of them escaped.

  He narrowed his eyes as he counted the ones on the dance floor. Stopped when he crossed twenty. Felt a white hoodie move on the floor and then saw the motion. A woman, by the looks of the dark hair falling over her top. She was raising her head cautiously, looking right at him.

  Not at me. At the corridor. Looks unhurt. She must have dived to the floor when the shooting began, playing dead.

  Don’t, he prayed silently. Stay there. Stay down. Don’t move. They’ll shoot.

  A shoe crushed his left hand. He winced, closing his eyes momentarily, biting back his groan. When he looked again, the girl seemed to have stiffened. In preparation for making a run.

  The shooters were fifteen yards behind her, talking to one another, laughing. One of them slapping a fresh mag into his weapon. All three AKs pointing to the ceiling.

  The woman heaved herself up. Got to her knees. Her movement drew the gunmen’s attention. Time seemed to slow.

  Zeb flung away an escapee to make room for himself. Struggled to his feet. Yelled loudly to draw the hostiles’ attention. Giving the woman a chance, who was getting to her feet, her face scared, her hair flowing behind her.

  Twenty yards to her. Almost the same distance from her to the shooters. Dark, flashing light, not ideal shooting conditions.

  He shouted again, challengingly, at the gunmen, as the woman started running. One shooter started training his weapon at her. The two others focused on Zeb, who broke free from the thinning crowd at the mouth.

  He took a long step forward. His Glock came up. He triggered a long burst just as his second foot came down. None of his rounds hit. The gunmen flinched. Started diving away. An AK chattered.

  ‘NO!’ Zeb roared when the woman jerked, started falling. She was close enough for him to see her wide eyes. He leaped at her, got his left arm around her, firing rapidly at the men, carrying her along with him, crashing to the floor, putting his body between her and the shooters, but not before he felt her jerk again and cry out.

  The beast exploded inside him. Zeb fell on his right shoulder. His left leg and hand shot out and trapped her behind him. His right hand rose in a straight line, firing as fast as he could at the shooters. He felt something slam into his chest. Heard someone shouting and yelling. A gunman fell.

  Zeb’s left hand moved unconsciously, replacing his mag smoothly, firing almost immediately again as another gunman fell.

  Incoming rounds above him, some whizzing past his face, his leg trembling as it got hit. Another blow to his chest, and still he didn’t stop until a third mag emptied and the third shooter fell.

  He moved stiffly, aware that his chest was caked in blood and his right leg was sticky. Turned to the woman, and his insides twisted.

  Her back was caked in blood. Her neck was bleeding and, as he reached out, her eyes flickered and she went still.

  The police came as he was on the verge of losing consciousness. He was in a hospital when he came to, the next day.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ a Thai doctor told him. ‘Two rounds in your chest, none hitting any vital organs. Your thigh, the round went clean through. It didn’t hit bone. You’ll recover. It will take time.’

  ‘The woman?’ he whispered.

  ‘She died.’ The doctor removed his glasses and polished them. ‘We heard what you did. The cops,’ he nodded sideways, ‘they’re out there. Waiting. They have questions.’

  The cops regarded him suspiciously, initially. Why would anyone charge toward a terrorist incident with nothing but a Glock? Why was a tourist carrying a handgun in the first place? What connection did Zeb have to the gunmen?

  Clare wielded her juice. She made calls and got powerful people in DC and Bangkok to make more calls.

  The police disappeared. Instead, the U.S. ambassador to Thailand appeared. He made arrangements for Zeb’s return. He didn’t ask any questions and had a single-line answer when Zeb asked him who the woman had been.

  * * *

  Sound returned to Ben Gurion airport. Servers cleared tables next to them. Zeb sipped his tea, forcing himself back to the present, composing himself.

  He raised his head and looked at Alice Monash.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered, ‘I couldn’t save your daughter.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jerusalem

  Two days after Assassinations

  Nine Days to Announcement

  * * *

  Alice Monash clasped Zeb’s hand in both of hers. Her eyes were moist. ‘You did everything that you could. Heck,’ she laugh-cried, a tear sliding down her cheek, ‘you didn’t have to do anything. You could have been a bystander. You saved many lives that day. My daughter …’ she sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘You couldn’t do anything more.’

  Lauren Monash had been on a month-long backpacking trip to Thailand, her trip paid for by her parents as a twenty-first birthday gift.

  Coincidentally, she was to catch the same return flight as Zeb the next day. On her last night, she had gone to the nightclub, and there, her young life had ended
.

  Alice Monash had pulled several strings to learn his identity. The Thai police gave her a name that turned out to be fake.

  The U.S. ambassador to Thailand said he had been ordered to collect a man from hospital and escort him to the airport. He had been expressly forbidden from asking any questions.

  ‘Who gave you those orders?’ she had demanded.

  ‘The State Department.’

  That department ignored her requests. Months passed, but she didn’t give up. She persisted. She had threatened, cajoled and persuaded people until finally, Clare, a close friend, admitted that Zeb Carter was one of hers.

  ‘I want to meet him,’ Alice had told her, after letting loose a furious tirade at her.

  ‘He doesn’t want to meet.’

  Zeb knew the ambassador had moved heaven and earth to get to him. He had ignored her efforts. What could he say to her? That if he had acted faster, if he had shot when he was beneath the crowd, maybe, just maybe, Lauren would have been alive?

  ‘You aren’t responsible,’ Alice squeezed his hands, seeming to sense his thoughts. ‘You can’t go down the could have, should have route. You can’t blame yourself. Tom and I don’t. We lost Lauren that night. It has left a hole in our lives that cannot be filled. We have learned to live with it. We want you to put it behind you and move on. And we want to say, thank you.’

  ‘For what, ma’am? I didn’t do—’

  ‘You tried,’ she said firmly. ‘For which we will be grateful forever.’

  They sat in silence until one of the suits at the perimeter of the café shifted on his feet. That reminded Zeb.

  ‘Ma’am, I really can’t protect you. There is another job that occupies—’

  ‘I know,’ she patted his hand. ‘This was the only way I could meet you. I made arrangements while on the flight. Our embassy’s arranging a security detail for me.’

  ‘Does Clare know? She didn’t tell me this change of plans,’ Zeb asked, much relieved.

  ‘No,’ the ambassador chuckled. ‘She didn’t tell me your identity. Not for several months. This is small payback.’