Ops Files II--Terror Alert Read online

  “Yes, Uri. What can I do for you?” Yael asked in a tone that clearly communicated his lack of enthusiasm.

  “We have a situation here with the imam. I need more resources, Yael.”

  “Tell me what you have.”

  Uri did. When he was done, Yael sounded only slightly more interested than before. “That’s not much to go on.”

  “We have better than eighty percent on facial recognition. I already sent the images for enhancement. But it’s impractical to do much more than file reports and surf the Internet with only the two of us. It’s not enough.”

  Yael’s sigh was tired. “It’s never enough. I won’t bore you with my problems, but let me tell you, we have shortages everywhere. The country wants to stay safe, but doesn’t want to pay for it. It’s madness.”

  “Promise me you’ll take a hard look at what I sent you, and get me some help. I can’t work miracles, and you know by now I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think I was onto something.”

  “Sure, Uri. Of course. I’ll do what I can, but no promises. It’s a different world now. New priorities. You know the story as well as I do.”

  “Right. No use for the old ways.”

  “A shame, but what can we do? We have to change or be bulldozed, am I right?”

  “Just look at the images. I’ll call again tomorrow,” Uri said, as an indication that he wasn’t leaving the situation alone and would persistently badger Yael until he got what he wanted.

  “I might be in a meeting.”

  “I’ll try back as many times as it takes,” Uri said, steel in his tone.

  Yael sighed again. “Don’t ever change, my friend.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Chapter 4

  800 kilometers north of Volochanka, Siberia

  Snow blew sideways as the icy blizzard’s fury intensified, the only sound the howl of the arctic wind scouring the frozen plain. In early spring, the stretch of forgotten coast was a frozen wasteland, and storms were the only visitors to the barren reaches of the uninhabitable permafrost terrain.

  Four snowmobiles banked over a rise, negotiating the sheets of ice that led to the sea with care as they were pummeled by the gelid onslaught. The lead vehicle, packed heavily with rough-weather gear, slowed to a stop, and its rider waved a hand overhead as he checked the screen of a handheld computer. The other men’s vehicles slid to a halt behind him, waiting, motors hissing steam in the subzero air.

  The lead rider pointed into the distance. “It should be over there. Half a kilometer more,” he said in Russian, his words muffled by the fabric wrapped around his face to prevent frostbite and windburn, his goggles giving him the appearance of an extraterrestrial.

  Vladimir Lukin had been plowing north with his team for three days, the last outpost of civilization in Volochanka a distant memory. Camping on the tundra was only one of the harsh realities of the trek to the northernmost reaches of the continent. A veteran of the armed forces, the elite Spetsnaz commandos famous for their endurance and skill, he’d seen his share of ugly conditions, but even so he was surprised by the ferocity of the intermittent storms they’d endured on their journey.

  But now the object of their quest was within reach: an abandoned lighthouse, a forgotten outpost built during the Soviet era, rumored to have fallen into ruin the last time anyone had seen it over a decade earlier, located on one of the most inhospitable reaches on the planet. Why the Soviet empire had, in its boundless wisdom, decided that a point jutting into a frozen sea required a signal beacon remained a mystery – but it had, and Vladimir hoped to benefit from it.

  Forced labor had built the structure, and the few survivors of the construction he’d managed to locate had been shells of humanity with something essential missing. Victims of years of malnutrition, exposure, and experimentation in the limits of human endurance, they were today denied by a nation determined to put its past behind it.

  Vladimir goosed the throttle and the snowmobile reluctantly lurched forward like a heavyweight in the final round of a fight. He would have preferred to have flown in on a seaplane, but the weather was too erratic, subject to change at a moment’s notice. So he and his men had loaded the snowmobiles and headed into the wasteland, in search of a treasure that would make Vladimir even richer than he already was.

  Six minutes later, a snow-covered mound rose out of the blizzard, and then the outline of a partially collapsed tower materialized from the blinding white of the storm. Vladimir slowed and worked his way cautiously to the irregularity in the bleak landscape’s uninterrupted sameness – the remains of the lighthouse living quarters and equipment outbuilding.

  The group left the engines idling, not daring to shut them off for fear they wouldn’t restart, thus stranding them and dooming them to a frozen death. Vladimir worked his way through the snow until he located an entrance – a lone steel door corroded beyond recognition, ajar, the interior exposed to the elements. One of his companions held a Geiger counter in his hand, watching its dial with fierce concentration. Vladimir pushed his goggles onto his forehead and eyed the man quizzically.

  The man looked up and shook his head.

  At least they wouldn’t all die of radiation poisoning on the way back to civilization – a horrible way to go, Vladimir knew from experience with Chernobyl survivors in his youth. He checked his handheld and nodded toward a far doorway. “It should be in there.”

  The second door proved more difficult. The slab was frozen in place, and it took half an hour to wedge it open, in the end requiring the use of a blowtorch and pry bars.

  The four men stood in the doorway, looking into the dank vault with their flashlights. Heavy cables ran from a junction box mounted on the bare cinderblock wall to a rectangular metal enclosure. The Russian with the radiation detector waved the device at the box as though casting a spell, and then looked to Vladimir and grunted.

  “It’s clean.”

  Vladimir nodded. “All right. Let’s get to work. You know what to do.”

  Within an hour they had secured the object of their attention – a Gorn strontium-90 thermal generator used to power the lighthouse beacon – onto a sled, using a handheld winch and pitons driven into the ice. They’d debated attempting to remove the radioactive source from the generator onsite, but Vladimir had decided that it would be safer under more controlled circumstances, so they’d come prepared to haul the entire piece of machinery.

  They checked the heavy yellow nylon straps that bound it to the steel rails, and Vladimir glanced at his watch, calculating how much time it would take to cover the distance to the unused airfield where they’d rendezvous with his plane. After a final check with the Geiger counter, Vladimir gave the word, and the procession of snowmobiles retraced the route south, moving with ponderous deliberation lest their precious cargo break free and endanger them all.

  Minutes later, tranquility settled once again on the desolate stretch of frozen coast, the intrusion of the snowmobiles, like prior incursions by humans, a temporary disruption in the timeless freeze. The lighthouse’s crumbling tower jutted impotently into the arctic air like a broken digit on a giant hand gesturing obscenely at the frigid landscape, and the vehicle tracks were already vanishing as the ruts filled with snow.

  Chapter 5

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Yael sat forward at the conference table, struck again by how young the two analysts across from him appeared to be. Had he ever been like them? So…new to the world, so green? It seemed impossible, yet the calendar didn’t lie. It wasn’t that they were children; it was that he had somehow grown old, robbed of years by the thief of time even as he’d deluded himself that the rules of aging didn’t apply to him.

  He stared down at his hands – an old man’s hands, liver spotted and wrinkled. His joints were slightly swollen from arthritis that came and went like the autumn wind. The nails were yellowed from smoking and ridged, the striations a harsh reminder of his waning twi
light on the planet. When he spoke, his voice sounded rough, grating, like sandpaper on stone.

  “I can’t believe that with all our technology the best we can do is a shoulder shrug,” he growled.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s inconclusive. Of the two subjects, one could be Hasim Farudah, but it’s impossible to be sure from the image.”

  “Farudah,” Yael repeated. His subordinate slid a thin file to him. He opened it and scanned the four photographs inside along with a single-page dossier, and then flipped the file closed and leaned back in his chair. “Let’s assume that it was. What does that tell us?”

  “Not a lot. I mean, he’s suspected as a go-between, last affiliated with a splinter group that broke from Hamas, but his role is unclear at this time.”

  “Is that a long way, like the ridiculous description in the file, of saying we don’t know anything about him?”

  The two analysts nodded uncomfortably. Levi, the eldest, frowned. “As you know, they’re like cockroaches. New ones pop up constantly. It’s impossible to have complete information on every minor player…”

  “And again, we don’t even know that it’s actually Farudah,” Adam, the other analyst, reminded him.

  “Gentlemen, our field office believes that these men met with a religious leader who’s crossed over to a hard-line fundamentalist school of thought. If that’s the case, we might have a situation developing. It’s of vital importance that I have an accurate idea of who these men are.”

  “We’ll need more images, sir. Higher resolution, if possible. Video would be better. Given what we have, this is the best we can do. I’m sorry,” Levi said.

  Yael snorted. “A definite maybe.” He slid the file back to Levi. “Very well. That’s all for now. Keep running analysis on it just in case one of the other tools can narrow it down from a coin toss.”

  When the men left, Yael sat staring at the whiteboard for several long moments before returning to his office. He couldn’t blame the analysts – he’d known when he’d seen the shots that they would need a small miracle to get definitive identification on the subjects. But he still had the problem with Uri, who he suspected wouldn’t take no for an answer. Uri, who came from the old school, where perseverance was more important than diplomacy, and who was as stubborn as a dromedary.

  Yael made several phone calls, and when he was finished, believed he had come up with a solution. He didn’t want to commit any experienced field agents to a wild-goose chase, but there was one promising candidate who the training program felt could benefit from additional seasoning. Yael pulled up her file and read with interest the report on her mission in Indonesia, and did a double take when he eyed her photograph.

  “Maya Weiss. You look like quite a handful for my old colleague Uri,” he whispered as he studied the image.

  He nodded to himself, and then called Uri to give him the good and bad news.

  “Sorry, Uri. No positive ID. But after considering your request, I’m delighted to tell you that I’m sending you one of our brightest stars to assist with your op,” Yael said.

  Uri sounded suspicious. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not giving me the whole story, Yael?”

  “Because you’ve been in the game far too long,” Yael said. “I’ll send you background on the agent and give you an ETA shortly.”

  “I’ll also need approval for an expanded budget.”

  “Which I’ll ensure you have by the time she arrives.”

  Uri snorted. “She?”

  “What, you have something against women now?”

  “I need a field operative, not a secretary.”

  “This operative single-handedly took out a heavily armed compound, Uri. I’d suggest you reserve judgment and park the chauvinism at the door.” Yael hesitated. “She’s relatively new, but the experience of working with a seasoned professional like you will do her a world of good.”

  “I can feel the smoke against the back of my legs from here, Yael.”

  “Trust me. She’ll be a big help. Just try to avoid the medieval mindset, would you?”

  Yael’s next call was to Jaron, to tell him that he wanted his star pupil. Jaron was unreadable, as always, but recommended that Yael speak with Elana, Maya’s instructor and mentor, whom Yael knew from past missions where they’d worked together. Elana sounded as she always did, no-nonsense and all business.

  “I can have her ready to ship out in a few hours. You want me to do the briefing, or will you send someone down?”

  “I’ll send someone,” Yael said, thinking he wanted to meet this woman himself before sending her to Bangladesh to be tormented by Uri, whom Yael didn’t for a moment believe would behave himself for long. “Any…reservations or advice? Is she ready for a full-time posting in the field?”

  “Oh, absolutely. From a skill standpoint, yes. As you know, there’s no substitute for more real-world experience, but she’s setting records every day here.”

  “How’s her judgment?”

  “She’s a machine,” Elana said, meaning it in a good way. The best operatives were dispassionate, not given to human traits like emotion…or remorse.

  “Anything to add I need to be aware of?”

  “No. I’d only caution you not to point her at anything you don’t want eliminated. She’s rather efficient – and you know I don’t say that lightly.”

  “Coming from you, that definitely means something. I’ll bear it in mind.” He checked the time. “Have her ready to ship out at three.”

  “Very well. Whom shall I tell security to expect?”

  “I’m coming myself.”

  There was no surprise in Elana’s voice. Typical. She’d invented the poker face. “I’ll let them know. See you when you get here.”

  Yael’s voice softened. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “We’re all busy. I understand.”

  Yael twisted his wedding ring. “See you in a few hours.”

  The line went dead. Yael set the handset back into the cradle, softly, as though handling a newborn, and stared off into space. His eyes roamed over the bookcase, the corkboard next to it covered with carefully worded bureaucratic missives, and settled on an ashtray perched on the corner of his desk – emptied that morning while he’d been in his meetings by his attentive assistant. He fished a pack from his shirt pocket and tapped out an unfiltered cigarette, and then lit it and blew a bluish stream at the ceiling.

  He had no idea why he felt melancholy today. Probably from the back and forth with Uri – a living reminder of what relics they both were. Old soldiers from a bygone era, still in the trenches, their days of service nearing a close.

  And then what? Fishing from the breakwater? Golf? Model ships or some similarly idiotic pursuit?

  The truth was he’d never devoted much thought to what would happen after…after he was no longer needed. When he was young, he didn’t dare. In this business there were no guarantees you’d see thirty, much less older, so the end of a career was as foreign a concept as intergalactic flight.

  Only now, here he was. At the end of one road, wondering for the first time what the future held. He’d spent his entire existence weaving intrigue, plotting and scheming, playing chess with real-world consequences. He’d been a mover of mountains, a god of sorts. The prospect of sitting on a porch with a blanket over his knees so he didn’t get a chill didn’t appeal to him – he couldn’t even picture it.

  Or rather, he could envision it all too well, and the image was horrific.

  Was that why Elana’s voice had stirred urges that he’d kept dormant for so long? Years? Was he looking for reassurance that he was still vital?

  He stubbed out the cigarette with a violent stab and pushed back from his desk. Enough with the daydreaming. There would be plenty of time for that once he was a doddering old fool. Right now he had an agent to brief, which would require that he be up to speed on not only what Uri was pursuing but also the entire region’s
dynamics, so she understood what she was going into. Probably nothing, Yael knew – Uri had been known to tilt at windmills and increasingly saw terrorists behind every rock – but it was on Yael to give her a comprehensive rundown, complete with the risks as he saw them.

  And there was always the possibility that Uri was actually onto something. It was easy to dismiss him as an anachronism far past his useful life, but Yael had known Uri long enough to respect his instinct, even if his track record of late was somewhat tarnished.

  As to Elana…that would have to wait for another day.

  He checked his watch and nodded.

  If anything were going to get done, it would have to.

  Chapter 6

  Tehran, Iran

  Vahid Madani studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror, waiting for the occupant of the stall to finish up: black hair brushed straight back, beard neatly trimmed, the traces of gray in it bestowing a dignified air, offsetting the studious eyes that darted behind his steel-rimmed glasses. Eyes that spoke to a keen intellect and a curious mind.

  Impatient eyes.

  A flush issued from behind the door, and a worker with a security-clearance badge affixed to his overalls stepped out, dropping his eyes automatically when he saw Vahid, a professor and important scientist, far above his station in the hierarchy of the university. Vahid took his time smoothing his hair as the man rinsed his hands, and waited until he’d left the restroom to enter the stall.

  Vahid latched the door and looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

  He took several deep breaths and squared his shoulders, trying to calm himself. The time for questioning his course was over – he was committed now and couldn’t go back if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. He knew what he had to do. Had known for years.