Assassin's Game (2 page)

“You must brim with confidence to be so close to the action,” Hamedi said. A brief silence ran and he sensed a mistake, that these words might imply a degree of cowardice. “Your intelligence source has again proved reliable,” he added quickly.

“Mossad is not what it once was,” Behrouz replied.

“No, certainly not. But they have never been what the world believes. If you ask me, Mossad is more legend than reality. The Jews, for all their faults, are wondrous storytellers.”

Hamedi sensed Behrouz fall still behind him, just out of sight, a geometry that served them both. Again ice tinkled in a glass.

“Our guests from Tehran are asking where you’ve gone. After your enlightening speech they have many questions about the project.”

“They always do,” Hamedi said derisively.

“Yes, yes. I too find them insufferable. Still, they have their place. Neither of us can do our work without funding.”

Hamedi said nothing.

“We are not so different, Professor. We have both risen to great achievements, the pinnacle of our respective disciplines.”

Hamedi could in no way equate his work to that of the thug standing behind him. Behrouz had risen through the military, climbing ranks with an appetite for brutality and sadism, qualities that translated well to a battlefield. After twenty years of thuggery, and with any remnants of civility certainly ruined, he had joined the secret police. Hamedi, on the other hand, had excelled academically, in particular math and science. He had attended universities and performed research, both at home and abroad.
My intellect is respected while your fist is feared
, he thought.
Otherwise, we could not be more alike
. What he said was, “This is the second attempt on my life this year.”

“And the second failure.”

“Do you think they will give up?”

Behrouz sighed. “That is the trouble with Jews. They never give up.”

“Quite so,” Hamedi agreed. “Which is why we must fight them on level ground.”

“Precisely. I’ve been told that your work is reaching fruition. This is fortunate for you. Once you’ve given us the ultimate weapon, I can’t imagine you will be at risk any longer. A year, Dr. Hamedi, perhaps two, and you will no longer require such heavy security. Who knows—you may never see me again.”

Finally, Hamedi turned to face the ugly little man. He smiled thinly.

Behrouz’s phone trilled a happy little ringtone, and Hamedi watched him pick up the call. After stating his name, the security chief only listened, his impervious, sunken expression giving nothing away.

Behrouz ended the connection, and said, “It is done. There were four commandos. All are dead.”

“Four,” Hamedi remarked.

“You expected more? A regiment, perhaps?”

“I am Israel’s greatest nightmare. I think I might warrant it. Did we suffer casualties?”

“Yes.” For the first time Behrouz seemed tentative. “Twenty-four dead, eighteen wounded.”

Hamedi stiffened, then turned back to face the desert. Neither man spoke for a time. But then, what could be said to such a thing? Behrouz had at his disposal the most experienced, well-trained soldiers in Iran. They had known exactly where and when to wait. And still a casualty ratio of ten to one.

“How will it be presented?” Hamedi asked.

“Must you ask? The news tomorrow will shout of a great victory over Israeli assassins. The mechanics of how it came to be? No one will care about that.”

A wave of laughter rolled from the house, disrupting the still desert night.

“Come,” Behrouz said. “We should return. Your expertise is in great demand.”

“Yes,” Hamedi agreed. “Isn’t it, though?”

With that the two men went inside, each riding his own thoughts.

What neither could know at that moment was that the attack just beaten down was not the end. Quite to the contrary, Israel’s latest failure would soon prompt decisions at the highest levels in Tel Aviv to approach things from an altogether different angle. The strike of September 25, having come within five miles of its target, would not be the last.

Nor would it be the most successful.

ONE

Three days later

Anton Bloch walked briskly along King George Street, leaning into a stiff wind that had swept in over the course of the morning. In most of the world, autumn winds brought change. Cold fronts to separate leaves from branches, gunmetal gray skies, and the breaking out of mothballed winter gear. In Tel Aviv, the last Friday of September did little more than stir the dust of yet another heat-stricken summer.

Had Bloch gone for a walk a year ago, it would have been a very different project. He would have been shadowed by two armored limousines and a dozen bodyguards, every street on his route mapped in advance and monitored. Even now, long removed from office, he generally warranted two men. But not today. The unusual request had come this morning, a handwritten note delivered by his successor’s aide de camp:
9:15, Meir Garden. Come alone.
So, for the first time in recent memory, Anton Bloch was walking by himself on a public street. He found it oddly liberating. Were he more of a pessimist, he might imagine Arab assassins around every corner. But then, no man who has served as director of Mossad can exist as a pessimist.

Bloch rounded a corner and turned left into the main entrance of Meir Garden. He spotted a familiar face—or rather, a familiar silhouette. A massive man with a flattop haircut materialized to greet him. He was wearing a suit and tie, cheap material but nicely pressed, the jacket either two sizes too small or fitted in a way to accentuate his muscular arms and shoulders. Bloch suspected the latter.

“Good morning, sir.”

On hearing his voice, Bloch remembered a first name. “Hello, Amos.”

Bloch had clearly gotten it right—Amos produced a smile that was at odds with his intimidating appearance. He spoke again through a tightly clenched jaw, “The director is expecting you, sir. Straight ahead, then the first path on your right.”

Bloch did as instructed.

He found the incumbent director of Mossad feeding peanuts to an obese squirrel. If the human form could have a generic equivalent, it would be Raymond Nurin. He was average in height and build, hair thinning but not bald, a trace of gray at the edges commensurate with his fifty-something years. His facial features were completely unremarkable, no hooked nose or brilliant eyes or distinguishing marks. The clothing was in line with the man, neither expensive nor cheap, neither bright nor drab. Raymond Nurin was the man you would meet at a cocktail party whose name escaped you ten minutes later. For an insurance salesman or an actor, a certain detriment. For a spy chief? He was the model of somatic perfection.

Nurin had taken over Mossad when Bloch was forced out. They’d had a few meetings in the weeks after the transfer of command, sessions intended to cover ongoing operations and facilitate a smooth transition. Bloch had barely known the man going in, and he’d expected little. Nurin had surprised him with an intellect that belied his unexceptional appearance. Since those initial meetings they’d had no contact whatsoever. Consequently, Bloch had no idea what sort of empire his successor might have built. Even less an idea of what he wanted today.

“Good morning, Anton.”

“Raymond.”

The two exchanged a polite handshake.

“Thank you for coming,” Nurin said. “I know it was short notice, but I can assure you my reasons are sound.”

Bloch said nothing. He looked idly around the park and saw no one else. No widows with grocery sacks or spandex-clad mothers pushing strollers on a trot. Bloch hadn’t spent much of his career in the field, but enough to recognize a sterile perimeter that reached at least two hundred yards. Even the bodyguards—there had to be an army—were keeping out of sight. Not for the first time, his opinion of Nurin shifted slightly, and in the same direction it always seemed to.

Nurin tossed his bag of peanuts into a trash can and began strolling the pressed gravel path. Bloch kept pace.

“How do you like the job?” Bloch asked.

“I would expect that question from anyone else.”

Bloch allowed a rare grin.

Nurin said, “Tell me, did you ever call on your predecessor for advice?”

“Is that why I’m here? Advice?”

“Of course not. That would imply certain inadequacies on my part.” It was Nurin’s chance to grin, but he passed and said, “Tell me what you’ve heard about our recent failure in Iran.”

“Qom? Only what was in the newspapers.”

“Come, Anton.”

Bloch paused on the path. Nurin turned to face him.

“All right,” Bloch said, “I still have a few friends, and we talk over a Guinness now and again. It was a disaster. We lost four good men, two of whom I knew well. Hamedi was untouched.”

“Four of our best, I won’t deny it. A terrible loss. It would have been six, but two were forced to abort the mission and return due to an injury.”

“What really happened?” Bloch asked.

“Essentially what you’ve read in the papers, a botched attempt at Hamedi. There was little hard evidence in the aftermath, of course. The men had no identification and we’ve denied all involvement. Still—”

“The world does not believe it.”

“Would you?”

Bloch didn’t bother to answer.

“Iran, as you would expect, has been gloating over the entire affair. Much like the attack in Tehran six months ago.”

“And that catastrophe was also as reported? Two assassins on motorcycles, both shot dead by security forces before they were within a mile of Hamedi?”

“Yes,” Nurin said.

“And so his legend grows.” Bloch mused, “One such failure and I think it is bad luck. Twice, however—” the old director’s voice faded off.

They began walking again, silence prevailing. A whirl of dust stirred over a nearby playground, sweeping past like a miniature tornado.

“You have a leak,” Bloch finally said.

“Clearly.”

“It happens—with some regularity, I fear, although usually at lower levels.”

“The missions against Hamedi were kept very high, exclusive need to know.”

Bloch nodded.

“It is the first such problem under my watch,” Nurin said. “I’ve begun a quiet investigation, but these things take time.”

“Yes, and always more than you think. Worse yet, there is no guarantee you will ever find your traitor.”

Nurin led them to a bench.

Bloch settled beside him, put an index finger to his temple, and said, “It is too bad you missed him. Yet I find myself wondering—if you did succeed would it really change Iran’s timetable? Is one man so important?”

“Hamedi is their Oppenheimer. Since taking control of the Atomic Energy Organization of Iran, two years ago, he has become our worst nightmare. Prior to his watch, the program had fallen into complete disarray. In order to mask the program from international inspectors, the Iranians divided the program, burying twenty facilities deeper than ever. Missile components and stockpiles of nuclear material were shuffled like a deck of cards. The result was that each working group knew little about what the other was doing, and progress suffered. There was a time when our Stuxnet and Flame viruses brought things to a virtual standstill. Centrifuges were destroyed by the thousands, and their entire network of software controls ruined. It was wonderful. But Hamedi has brought great change. On one hand, he is a raving anti-Semite whose speeches parrot their former president, the lunatic who denies that the Holocaust ever occurred. But Hamedi is also a brilliant engineer and an organizational genius.”

“As with Hitler and his oratory prowess,” Bloch reflected. “Why does God grant madmen such gifts?”

“Hamedi has publicly stated that Iran’s ballistic nuclear capability, should the country be so blessed, will be aimed squarely at Israel.”

“When I resigned, the estimate for Iran mating their first weapon to a Shahab-4 ballistic missile was three years. Has this changed?”

“We have only a matter of months. The critical components are being gathered at a new facility outside Qom. The Iranians long ago cleared the hurdle of distilling uranium to weapons-grade purity. That is the only reason they came to the negotiating table, agreeing to slow the program if sanctions were removed.”

“How much material do you estimate they have?” Block asked.

“Enough for a half dozen warheads, possibly more. Yet putting this material to use, achieving a scaled-down device that can be mounted atop a ballistic missile—that is a more elusive challenge. Hamedi, unfortunately, has nearly brought success.”

“Will there be a demonstration? An underground test?” Bloch asked.

“Of course, just as the North Koreans performed for the benefit of America. To test an efficient, small-scale weapon in the ground is like issuing a birth certificate, an announcement of your new child.”

“Our defenses?”

“Upgrades to our Arrow ballistic missile defense system will not be ready soon enough. The engineers can’t guarantee it will ever be capable of defending against such a long-range weapon. They talk about percentages and probabilities, not the kind of measurements one wants to hear with regard to the annihilation of Tel Aviv.”

Nurin fell quiet, and Bloch eyed him more closely. “Am I to take it that you wish to make another attempt against Hamedi?”

Nurin nodded.

“Surely you realize your problem. These two failed missions have not only caused great embarrassment, but they spoil the chance for further attempts. With a target pinned on his back, Hamedi will be more cautious than ever.”

Bloch waited, but Nurin did not speak. The new Mossad director was allowing his predecessor to work things through, perhaps as a test to his own ideas. To see if the same conclusion was reached.

Bloch looked skyward and whispered aloud, fashioning a path as he would have a year earlier, “You need to eliminate a man who is very well guarded. You have a security leak in your organization at a high level, one you cannot cut out in time to make a difference. Given this, I’d say your only option is to use an outsider. A solo operator, I think. Someone reliable and certainly discreet. There are such men for hire in the world…” Bloch hesitated, “or so I’ve heard.”