Ops Files II--Terror Alert (31 page)

The patient had been brought in with twenty minutes’ notice, and the doctor had notified his nursing assistant when he’d received the frantic call. He’d attended to his fair share of gunshots in his exclusive private practice to a specialized clientele – since losing his license, he’d been an unofficial physician to the underworld – but this case had tested his expertise to the limits. He’d told his benefactor that the odds of the man surviving through the night were less than ten percent. Privately, he gave the patient’s survival chances more like single digits. But to his surprise, the wounded man had hung on, his pulse as faint as the flutter of a moth’s wings, and as the hours had passed he’d grown stronger.

“You’re by no means out of the woods yet. You’ll be here for a week, at least. I’ve got you on a morphine drip for the pain. Your job now is to sleep and give your body a chance to repair itself. We’ll worry about the rest of you once you’re strong enough for another surgery.”

He’d been forced to leave a bullet fragment near the man’s heart. Although his surgical suite was as well equipped as any private facility in the area, removing the chunk of lead would require a steadier touch than his, and specialized equipment. As long as the Russian didn’t push himself, it would wait. The paying party had verified that he could be flown to Moscow for that surgery, as well as for more comprehensive care.

The doctor glanced at the lab coat hanging on a coat rack by the door, his name embroidered on it, a memento of better days. Dr. Stoddard, surgeon of renown, brought low by his taste for the opiates he used for his patients’ pain. His private practice afforded him the means to indulge his habit, and his contacts enabled him to secure the purest heroin money could buy at giveaway prices. Unlike the stereotypical junkie, Stoddard was highly functioning and had reconciled his addiction with a responsible lifestyle, the cannula in his arm a concession to the method of administration but the only outward indication that he had a little substance issue.

When the call had come in, he’d scrambled, giving himself a small maintenance dose to get him through the surgery. The dose when he was done had been larger, and he’d nodded off for a half hour while his assistant had monitored Vladimir. Now he was alert, although his body was already signaling that it would soon need another bump, and the drug was not to be denied.

If the Russian lived through the next twenty-four hours, his survival chances increased from the soft fifteen percent Stoddard now gave him to a more solid twenty-five. Assuming no complications, those would increase to fifty by day two, and then strengthen each day thereafter until he could be safely transported to a private jet for transport to a real hospital with a team of waiting specialists.

For now, though, it was in fate’s hands. The IV bag was filled with antibiotics to stave off infection, they’d managed to secure six pints of type A positive blood for the surgery, and the damage had been stitched, cauterized, and otherwise mended.

Stoddard studied the man’s face, and a part of him wondered at the tenacity of the human spirit. Another part of him wanted nothing more than to sleep in a narcotic trance.

Eventually the drug won out.

Vladimir lay without moving, unaware of the battle raging in the little man’s body only footsteps away, the ventilator taped to his face hissing with metronomic regularity, his slumber dreamless as the organism fought to save itself and live to see another day.

Reims, France

Vahid was becoming increasingly stir-crazy as the days passed with no word from his patron, and had taken to touring the town’s museums and galleries to make the time go by. Today he’d finished a splendid morning in the main cathedral, admiring its breathtaking architecture and ornate decoration, a marvelous feat by any stretch of the imagination and a testament to man’s ingenuity.

His Russian captors had grown lax when Vladimir failed to return, and had ultimately allowed Vahid to do as he liked, supplying a single bodyguard to protect him and ensure he didn’t bolt. Nobody would tell him what had become of the Russian, but he got the feeling it wasn’t good, because all talk of going to St. Petersburg had stopped and they were now in a state of suspended animation, waiting for his reappearance – or the emergence of another authority figure.

Someone was still paying the bills, so Vahid wasn’t worried. Every day he had another two hundred euros awaiting him on the breakfast table, so he was able to attend to his needs, such as they were: a light breakfast at a café on the square, lunch at one of several bistros he’d discovered that had excellent chefs, dinner at one of the many gourmet restaurants that were shining stars in the Michelin crown. All in all, his existence wasn’t unenjoyable, although he had a pronounced sense of foreboding each day when he awoke.

Like it or not, he’d allied himself with Vladimir, and if something had happened to him, where did that leave Vahid? It wasn’t like he could take out an ad in the paper –
nuclear physicist and bomb maker extraordinaire, will work for anyone who can foot the bill.

That there had been no news of his first device detonating worried him, and he suspected Vladimir’s disappearance was linked to the failure of that operation. Hopefully nothing had gone wrong with the bomb – he didn’t want to think about the consequences of his handiwork having been the weak link.

Vahid sipped a glass of red table wine as he finished his lunch at a sidewalk table, a seafood crêpe that was as delicious as it was filling, and signaled to the waiter for the check. The man arrived, all pomp and ceremony, starched white shirt and black apron with the café’s name emblazoned across it, a uniform worn with pride, and Vahid paid, taking care to leave an overly generous tip – after all, he could afford to, now that he wasn’t living on a teacher’s salary in Iran.

He finished his drink and pushed back from the table, enjoying the sun’s warmth as he stood, and made his way across the street to where the Russian would be waiting with the car. He crossed the busy thoroughfare and saw the Volvo sedan with windows tinted so dark they were opaque, by the front of the theater, where a pair of schoolgirls stood, all legs and long hair and shy smiles, catching his eye for a moment before he breezed past and moved to the vehicle.

He was almost to the car when he sensed someone behind him, and he was turning when he felt the hard muzzle of a pistol dig into his ribs. Tariq’s distinctive voice whispered in his ear.

“Get into the car. Don’t make a fuss, or I’ll blow your spine apart. Don’t even try me, or I’ll do it, I swear.”

Vahid’s blood ran cold at the killer’s words. He had no doubt he would make good on his threat.

“Okay. Just calm down. I’m going,” Vahid said, his mind racing furiously.

How had the Iranians found him? Was it a double cross? Had the Russian sold him out, now that his usefulness was over?

Vahid climbed into the car. He didn’t recognize the driver, but his heart sank when he saw his customary bodyguard sitting in the passenger seat, eyes unblinking, a small perforation below his ear revealing a slim trickle of dried blood.

Tariq sat next to Vahid, pistol now nestled in his pocket again, his hands more than sufficient to snap Vahid’s neck like a twig if he wanted to. The driver eased into traffic, and Tariq eyed Vahid, the hatred palpable.

“So we meet again, professor,” the Iranian spat, pronouncing the title like an insult.

“I can explain,” Vahid began.

Tariq smiled, the expression as chilling as if he’d bared fangs. “Really. Well, then, by all means, do.”

“They kidnapped me. Forced me at gunpoint with them in Switzerland. And they’ve had me under constant surveillance. You see that for yourself. This man is only one of many.”

“So you were forced against your will?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ve been watching you for several days. Your captivity seems to include a lot of fine dining and art. Oh, and a rather remarkable brothel, if I may say so myself. Makes me wonder how I can get kidnapped by the same group.”

“It’s…I’m telling the truth.”

“Of course you are. And I’m sure that when the court hears your story, along with my photographs and testimony, they will take appropriate action.”

“The court?”

“Oh, yes, we’re headed back to Tehran, where an Islamic tribunal will decide your fate. I will say that I missed your trips to the mosque, as well. Let’s see – hookers, alcohol, no prayer…seems like you might have turned your back on being a good Muslim, no?”

“I…”

“You are no doubt aware of the penalty for apostasy under Sharia law, are you not? It’s death, professor.”

“I told you, I was kidnapped.”

Tariq nodded as he withdrew a syringe from his inside jacket pocket and held it aloft. “Yes, you did, professor. Yes, you did.”

Tel Aviv, Israel

Maya sat in an uncomfortable steel chair, waiting for her interrogators to return. She stared at the drab olive walls, the paint peeling around the corners of the ceiling where the painters had applied the puke green color too thin, and reminded herself for the umpteenth time that this was as much a part of her chosen career as being in the field chasing miscreants.

She’d been released from custody by the Hastings police after Crosby had explained that she was an informant whose identity was protected, and after being thanked by the sergeant she’d located the biker and given the keys back, apologizing for the drama and for losing his phone. He’d looked at her like she was from another planet and shrugged it off, relieved to be alive. Word had rippled through the crowd that a bomb scare had closed the festival for four hours, and he wasn’t holding a grudge against his savior. He would later tell the story of the mysterious woman who’d stolen his bike at gunpoint to a rapt crowd of drunken kindred, and it would continue to be a staple in his repertoire for years to come.

Maya had been called to London and debriefed at length for two days by three different Mossad officials, two men and a woman, each taking a different approach. The first man had been friendly and understanding; the second doubting, distrustful and stern; the final woman neutral and professional.

The questions had varied from leading to unbiased, and at the end of the ordeal several things were obvious. Everyone involved in the London office was trying to find a way to appear to have been assisting Maya at every step. Simultaneously, they were trying to frame her success in identifying, then tracking, and ultimately neutralizing Abreeq as mostly luck on her part.

Their problem was that no matter how she was approached, her story was unvarying, because she was simply telling the truth, recounting her saga – as well as describing the ineptitude and bureaucracy that had taken them to the brink of disaster. But of course, nobody wanted to file a report that implicated them as incompetent or worse, so the questions continued until headquarters in Israel recalled her.

Maya had been accompanied on the flight by an agent who had said precisely six words to her their entire time together. She’d been transported from the airport to a military base, where her debriefing had continued. This time the tone was different, less accusatory, more genuinely interested in what had transpired and how the system could be improved.

A long day and a half of this, and here she sat, her butt numb from the chair, boredom her overwhelming emotion.

The door opened and two men entered. She looked up and her face transformed from unreadable to surprised and happy.

“Uri! What are you doing here?” she asked, rising.

“Apparently they aren’t done with me quite yet,” the older man replied. Jaron stood slightly behind him in a starched uniform that contrasted with Uri’s rumpled garb. “Word is you had quite a little run of it.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Maya agreed.

Both men took seats across from her. Jaron studied her for a moment and then sat forward. “We’re extremely proud of you. You demonstrated exactly the sort of perseverance and courage we strive to ingrain in our operatives.”

Maya felt herself blushing. “I’m sure most of your people would have done the same.”

“I’m not,” Jaron said, exchanging a glance with Uri. “Anyway, we need to discuss your continuation with our group. You’ve been a topic of much discussion and disagreement.”

“What? After all this? I would have thought I’ve proved my worth.”

“Nobody’s questioning your value,” Jaron corrected. “Rather, we’re looking at whether or not you’d do well in a specialty role. As an operative in a squad within our group that specializes in…delicate situations. Extractions. Abductions.”

“Executions,” Uri finished. “Let’s not mince words.”

Maya nodded slowly. “However you think I’d be of the most use.”

Jaron eyed her. “The assignments are usually in hostile regimes, where there’s a high level of personal jeopardy. More so than our usual operations. I won’t lie to you – the survival rate isn’t particularly good.”

“Like I said, I’m up for anything where you believe I’d be of value,” Maya said.

“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” Jaron said. “I’ll get the paperwork that transfers you over.” He stood and moved to the door. “You did a remarkable job in England, Maya. You prevented a catastrophe of unprecedented proportions. It’s a shame your actions will never be known, but you have my sincere admiration.”

Maya watched Jaron leave, and then turned to Yuri. “I’m so glad they didn’t…”

“Terminate me with extreme prejudice? I’m sure it was discussed. Thankfully, I still have value. Besides, since it looks like I’m to live at least a few more summers, I would have been bored out of my mind hanging around the waterfront, drinking too much, watching the pretty girls, and wishing I was young again.”

“Doesn’t sound that bad.”

Uri smiled sadly and studied his hands. “This sounds better.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Sure. If it means less bureaucracy and more action, who wouldn’t be?”

“As he said, the danger level increases substantially.”