Patriots & Tyrants (4 page)

Reverberant gunshots echoed from the helicopters overhead as they fired on the soldiers trying desperately to take cover among the stacks of unused lumber and re-bar. Kafni pushed himself across the ground toward Osman and wrapped an arm around the commander's chest as he began to pull him to cover behind the sea containers. "Those helicopters have Jordanian markings," he yelled to Osman, "turn your radio to an open channel and tell them to cease fire!"

Nouri and the Chechen continued to fire their pistols keeping Nazari at bay as they backed toward the pier, the Chechen dragging his wounded comrade with him.

"Jordanian helo this is Israeli Defense Force Commander Okan Osman! Cease your fire! Cease your fire!" Osman yelled into his wrist mic. "I repeat cease your fire!"

The barrage of gunfire from the Cobras' mounted machine guns continued.

Osman switched the channel on the radio unit again and repeated his transmission. "Jordanian helo this is Israeli Defense Force Commander Okan Osman! Cease your fire! Cease your fire!"

The machine gunfire stopped and the rotor speed of the helicopters increased as they rose away into the air.

"No! No! No!" Osman yelled trying to get up from the ground. Kafni held him down, keeping them both shielded in between the sea containers as the bullets from Nouri and the Chechen pinged off the steel containers. Osman wrestled against him trying to get to the aid of his IDF unit. Freeing himself from Kafni's grasp, the commander launched himself upright only to fall again as he placed weight on his injured right leg.

The small arms fire stopped as the buzz of the sea plane's engine started. Kafni rose to his feet and ran to the edge of the sea container. Looking towards the plane, he saw the two Chechens disappear inside, helped aboard by Hakim Tehrani who then returned to help Nouri aboard. As he grabbed Nouri, the Iranian financier stood stiff and gripped Tehrani by the shoulders pulling him out of the aircraft and back onto the dock.

"This is what happens to people who betray me!" Nouri yelled as he fired three shots at point blank range into Tehrani's chest, launching the man off the dock and into the ocean where his body landed with a splash. Nouri retreated quickly into the craft and the hatch closed behind him. The plane swung right and revved its engines as it glided across the water, a white mist churning behind it.

Nazari arrived at the edge of the container and raised his pistol.

"They're gone," said Kafni placing an arm over Nazari's and pushing the weapon down. "They're gone."

The plane roared away towards the Red Sea increasing its speed until it gained air and disappeared into the horizon.

Sa'adi Nouri held tight to the edge of a gray upholstered seat as the aircraft turned sharply. On the floor beside him, Deni Baktayev bent over his brother, Vadim, trying in vain to stop the bleeding from his wounds. As the aircraft straightened Deni stood suddenly and drew a black combat knife from his belt. "You have betrayed us! I will kill you for this!"

Nouri raised his pistol to the Chechen's forehead as he started forward. "You don't have the time if you're going to save your brother."

The Chechen stared down the barrel for a moment, his bulbous nose flaring with rage. After a few moments passed, he dropped the knife and returned to his brother. Vadim coughed blood as he lay against the wall of the plane's cargo area.

"Murderous pigs!" Nouri said as he took a seat and latched the safety belt. "I have contacts in Medina. We'll get him to a hospital and then we'll find the Israeli swine that put him there."

"Thank you for coming to meet me here at my home," Prime Minister Asher Harel said from behind his desk, closing a file he had been looking over as Abaddon Kafni entered the spacious study. "Here our meeting will be far more private."

The study had high ceilings with circular medallions coming from two chandeliers like the ripple effect of a pebble thrown into a still pond, white plastered walls with ornate sculptures and a mahogany floor covered by a nearly wall-to-wall area rug. Sets of chiffon curtains hung beside the windows and white blinds covered the glass but allowed a generous amount of natural light to pass through. A set of French doors provided an entrance from the rest of the home.

"Of course, your excellency," Kafni said as he stood with his hands folded in front of him as a member of the Prime Minster's staff closed the doors behind him, leaving the two men alone.

"I'm sure you know why I've called you," Harel said as he stood and motioned for Kafni to follow him to an area in front of his desk where a set of tan suede sofas and lounge stairs sat around an upholstered square coffee table with crystalline trays full of glasses and small plates. Harel was a tall man with a slender frame, graying hair, and a round face with soft features. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked.

"No, thank you." Kafni said as the two men took seats opposite each other, politely crossing their legs and placing their hands in their laps. "I'm sure you've called because of the incident along the Jordanian border."

"Yes. I want to know what it is that Sayar told you as you were beginning this operation."

"Only that it was an operation being handled at the top and that we were trying to apprehend a known terrorist financier, Sa'adi Nouri."

"I see," said Harel. "And was it your impression that I had knowledge of this operation?"

Kafni tried to hide his surprise. Had Sayar not informed the Prime Minister, the head of the Israeli government, the man Mossad was to report directly to? "Yes, sir, that was my understanding."

"Did Aviv Sayar tell you directly that he was working with me or my office?"

"Yes. He said the operation had been kept between the two of you to date because of the need for secrecy. Are you saying you didn't know, that he hadn't told you about it?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Director Kafni. I was notified along with the rest of the world with breaking news of a gunfight involving Jordanian helicopters over Israeli soil."

Kafni lowered his eyes to the floor, a mix of anger and dread filling his mind and twisting his stomach into knots. He was about to be excoriated by the leader of his country. Had Sayar somehow thrown him under the proverbial bus? While it was his intention to retire, he wanted that retirement to be on good terms. He wanted to leave Mossad with his honor and reputation intact.

"Look," Harel said, his tone easing. "From the version of events that I have received from both Sayar and from the field reports I have reviewed none of this is your fault. You were recruited for this mission by Sayar because your expertise is our overseas operations and because he knew your attention was not focused on the inner politics of our country. Since I took office two years ago my relationship with Sayar has been rocky to say the least. He is losing control and both Mossad and Israel are suffering because of it. I do not agree with his often heavy handed tactics and in the last few months he has sought to keep as much from my knowledge as possible. Obviously, if this operation had been a success we wouldn't be sitting here and I would not have spent most of the last week on the phone bowing down to diplomats across the globe for nearly causing a war."

"How is it that we nearly caused a war, sir? The Jordanian aircraft fired on us without any warning and without cause."

"You're aware of the way the world is out there, Mr. Kafni. It's always our fault. Arafat sends suicide bombers onto our buses and into our grocery stores to kill innocent people and its because we didn't give him enough land at the last peace summit. How much is enough? They want to cut our country in half."

"No, sir," Kafni said. "They want to push our country into the Mediterranean Sea."

Harel ceded the point with a wave of his hand and a raise of his eyebrows. "The Jordanians claim they received intelligence from an unidentified source that an American businessman was to be hit by a terrorist cell when he exited his aircraft at a property he owned on the Gulf of Aqaba. They said the helicopters picked up heat signatures in the building and assumed it was men lying in wait for the hit. Whether that is true or the whole thing was a setup by Sa'adi Nouri and ceaselessly corrupt members of the Jordanian military, I don't know, and I probably never will."

"They were still over Israeli soil. They had no right to act period," Kafni said.

"The borders in that area are marked in most places only by a barbed wire fence and in some areas not even that. The Jordanians will claim they didn't know they were over the border. What is the latest on the men who were injured?"

"Dead, sir. Most of them are dead. We lost ten members of Lotar Eilat. Three on the boat Nouri's men RPGed and seven more who were cut to pieces by the helicopters. The lone one who survived will never walk again and that's if he lives through the next month of surgeries. Commander Osman's injuries were minor. He'll be on crutches for a few months but with the right therapy he'll be back on duty before long."

The prime minister grimaced. "I'm announcing Sayar's resignation in the coming days whether he gives it willingly or not."

"I understand, sir."

"I want you to replace him as the head of Mossad."

Kafni felt his eyes go wide and the breath leave his body. His mind raced. Hastily, he collected his thoughts and did his best to hide the shock he was feeling.

"You're an agent with a long resume of successful field work," the Prime Minister continued. "You command the respect of your subordinates, you know the ins and outs of the day to day operations as well as the long term assignments and on top of that, you have the academic background required to successfully navigate the political and diplomatic maze of international relations. Were you not awarded the title of Doctor three years ago?"

"Yes, sir, that is correct," Kafni said nodding.

"You're exactly the kind of even handed leader Mossad needs after years of the iron-fisted tactics of Aviv Sayar. Israel couldn't ask for a more ardent patriot to lead its first line of defense."

Kafni took a deep breath and pushed his glasses up on the rim of his nose. "You are offering me a great honor and I thank you for that. I will never cease in my patriotism nor my devotion to this country, but I must decline. I have spent the last twenty-three years with my life on the line for Israel. Two of those years in the IDF and the twenty-one after that in Mossad. After so long my wife deserves a husband and my children deserve a father. I hope you understand."

Harel nodded and smiled. Standing from his seat and offering his hand, he said, "I thought that would be your answer, but I had to try. In that case, in place of Aviv Sayar, I accept your resignation effective immediately and I want you to know that you go into retirement with my respect, my friendship and the never ending gratitude of the Israeli people."

Kafni stood and accepted the handshake. "Thank you, sir."

Seagulls squawked in the night sky and the ocean crashed against the crustacean covered support beams as Declan McIver moved at an abrupt pace towards the end of the pier. He pulled his dark gray stocking cap down over his neatly trimmed blonde hair and stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his black pea coat, trying his best to shield his lean figure from the cold winds that blew across Cape Cod Bay like the last gasp of a dying man. Passing the dormant whale watching and dolphin tour boats anchored down from a long winter season, he kept his eyes fixed on the port side of the Saint Malachy's Revenge, a fishing trawler he'd worked aboard for a little more than a year. The green and white boat bobbed up and down fifty yards ahead of him. In the distance, the larger vessel it was there to meet sat anchored in the Atlantic, a motorized rowboat tied off to the trawler providing the only evidence the two boats had any connection. So far Declan hadn't noticed a lookout but found it hard to believe the men aboard hadn't posted one. The meeting taking place wasn't one the captain of the Revenge, Lorcan O'Rourke, would want overheard.

Reaching the boat, Declan stepped aboard cautiously. Inside the trawler's bridge, one story above him, he could hear the boisterous voices of O'Rourke, his first mate Sean Reid, and the Middle Eastern men that had arrived on the small shipping vessel marked with black letters that read
Zarin,
undoubtedly one of the many front companies for the government-owned Islamic Republic of Iran Shipping Lines, or IRISL, the Revenge so often met in international waters on their so-called fishing trips. In fact, the Saint Malachy's Revenge was a fishing trawler in appearance only. The boat's real purpose was smuggling, it's cargo often including weapons, drugs, counterfeit money, international fugitives or anything else that someone was willing to pay O'Rourke a heavy price to haul into the northeastern United States.

But Declan had his doubts that the meeting going on in the bridge upstairs was about smuggling. The men aboard the Iranian vessel were different this time. Whatever was being discussed, it was worth great risk to both O'Rourke and the Iranians because if either was seen by the US Coast Guard in the company of one another red flags would fly in all directions. In Declan's mind it was a certainty that the meeting meant something bad and he wanted to know what it was.

Ducking underneath the ill-maintained trawling beams, he spotted the lookout he'd known was about. A black clad Arabian looking man carrying an Uzi sub-machine gun paced the starboard side, his attention turned out to sea. Obviously the men aboard were more concerned with Coast Guard patrols than any threat from the docks. As the man turned and walked away towards the bow Declan moved in behind him, his advance made silent by the waves slapping against the hull. Taking a glance upwards towards the tinted windows of the Bridge to be sure no one was looking; he delivered a crushing chop to the man's carotid artery, knocking him unconscious. Catching the falling body by the collar of the man's black BDU style jacket, Declan lowered him to the deck and slid him out of sight. Picking up the Uzi, he removed the magazine and dropped both it and the gun over the side of the trawler into the bay.