Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (39 page)

George met the Director's challenging gaze. "With all due respect, sir, we don't even know who has the treasure. Wait until she gets word from Munich before you decide if she gets a partner. You know how Mardinaud arranges his little games."

Stefandis shook his head. "I'm not going to risk another man with her. I can't afford it. If she gets the treasure back, I'll admit I'm wrong. I'm a big man, I have broad shoulders. If she screws up, she risks only herself. Then, you'll have to get off my back about her. She's on her own for this one."

George looked across the desk and knew he had no choice. The Director had won this round. Stefandis cared little for the operation and less for Katrina. The perfect combination to get Katrina killed.

George rose from the chair and snatched the piece of paper off the desk. At that moment, he would have given his pension to knock the grin off Stefandis' face. Instead, he turned and left the office, heading directly for the basement sports complex.

Since Stefandis had retired her from active duty, Katrina had been spending more and more time at both the gym and the firing range. For the past three years, she had been sharpening her skills in preparation for a return to active duty. Now, George was finally able to give her the opportunity.

Katrina was working on the Nautilus equipment. George stood and watched her for a time - acutely aware of his aging body. He found himself admiring her figure clad in the tight blue leotard. Katrina's short hair, almost black, was combed back in the latest style. (George missed her long hair and wished she had never cut it off.) Her dark eyes shone brightly as she strained against the weights. Well proportioned curves softened her lean and tightly muscled body. As she did her arm flies, her breasts pressing against the thin cloth, George found himself wishing that his new
twenty-four-year-old
wife had the body of this
thirty-four-year-old
.

Finished with her workout for the day, Katrina grabbed her towel and walked across the mats. When she saw George, she stopped in midstride and stared at him as though she dared not step any closer. The Operations Chief held his thumb up to her and she began to smile. Then, to the amazement of the others in the room, she let out a loud cry, took three steps, and executed a perfect midair somersault.

Katrina Kontoravdis landed with her legs split and her arms stretched skyward.

Morning came to the desert.

The large, orange sun slowly rose, brightening the low sand dunes that stretched far into the distance. The temperature had already risen ten degrees. Most of the wildlife had long since returned to their dens in preparation for yet another day of scorching, dry heat. The remaining few worked feverishly to retrieve the last drops of dew deposited in the leaves of the stunted growth. Only the slight shift of the red sand betrayed the movements of the small creatures. A hawk circled, seeking the sparse prey before resting for the day.

The village was as silent as the surrounding desert. Laid out in habitual Arab fashion, the mud and straw brick huts were lifeless. The normally early rising laborers were absent and even the small square, home of the village's single spring, was empty. No stooped, black-robed widows came to draw water for their families. No chickens or goats gathered for their morning feeding; the stalls were empty of animals. No children ran in play before their day of labor. The dirt streets, normally teeming with activity, were desolate, as though visited by a plague.

The silence spread out from the village in ever widening circles, like the hawk high in the sky. There were no groups of men bickering among themselves as they watched their women prepare the morning meal. Even the bell in the makeshift mosque had not called the faithful to morning prayers.

In the quiet, the hawk's high pitched cry was deafening. With all its God given grace, the bird sped off to the west, frightened by a sound still beyond human ears.

Suddenly, the scream of two jets shattered the silence.

Two F 16s emerged out of the blinding sun on the eastern horizon and flew directly at the village, skimming the desert floor at 200 feet to defeat the radar. As they reached their predefined initial point, they pushed their noses up and climbed to 2000 feet. The noise increased to a frenzied pitch as the two planes rolled to acquire their target and flipped back over. Suddenly, death fell from the planes.

Each pilot released two 750 pound M117 bombs and throttled into a steep dive. By the time the four bombs exploded, the jets were back below the radar, employing terrain masking. Seconds after the blast, the F 16s had disappeared from sight.

Frail huts burst apart, their hard bricks shattering into thousands of projectiles that punched fist sized holes in the few remaining walls. The spring sustained a direct hit. Water and debris showered down on a third of the compact village. The stables caught fire and the straw erupted into flames.

A volley of bullets kicked up the dust as two attack helicopters rose under full power from behind a nearby dune. A sixty eight millimeter rocket flattened the uncompleted mosque and four incendiary rockets exploded at the edge of the village. Each helicopter continued the barrage from its single, front mounted machine gun while skidding to a stop.

Before the helicopters could settle to the ground, commandos jumped from the two craft. The double lion insignia of the elite Israeli squad gleamed prominently on the shoulder of their desert camouflage jumpsuits. Each commando carried an ARM assault rifle. Grenades swung from their webbed belts. A knife sheathed on the outside right calf and a holstered Beretta completed the uniform. Every third man also carried a pickax.

The soldiers began firing as their feet touched the ground and they headed for the closest cover. The pilots delivered another hail of machine gun fire above the heads of the running men as the transports took off. Lifting to two hundred feet, the craft hovered like huge dragonflies.

As the sun obliterated the shadows, the commandos formed a jagged line along the border of the town. At a signal, they moved into the village, splitting into groups of three soldiers. The teams broke into the remaining buildings and searched for survivors or snipers, using the pickax to check for trap doors. When they heard the dull thud of the wooden cover, the men surrounded the entryway, pried open the door, and lobbed a flash grenade down the hole. A team member risked a cave in and checked the tunnel. After completing each search, the team marked the hut with green paint and moved on.

The men reached the far end of the village within ten minutes and a blue smoke flare exploded in the air. Seconds later, the signal repeated. A loud air horn sounded as the helicopters settled to the ground. The commandos relaxed and broke formation, trying to escape the scorching sun by sitting against the partial wall at the rear edge of the village. Drinking from their canteens, they laughed and talked, oblivious to the destruction behind them.

*

As the rotors of the helicopters slowed and stopped, the silence of the desert settled back over the village. Only the crackle of fires and the low murmur of the men broke the eerie calm.

Behind the soldiers, the village lay in ruin. No building had escaped the onslaught of bombs, artillery and commandos. Huts were missing roofs and walls or totally reduced to heaps of rubble. Deep craters pitted the roads. Fires continued to burn, fuelled by wood and straw. All the visions of war were complete, save one.

No bodies littered the battlefield.

The village was deserted.

David Morritt stood on the low wall and scanned the destroyed buildings. The barrel of the rifle he held was still hot from the rapid firing only minutes before. The ammunition pouches of his jumpsuit were empty, as was the final clip he had discarded. His web belt held no grenades. As David surveyed the ruins, another commando, sporting the rank of a
Rav Seren
, came up behind him.

David, sensing the other's presence, turned and gave a mock salute. "Major Sigura. How did we do on this most important mission? I trust we did not lose any men."

Yaacov Sigura ignored the older man's sarcasm, but the obvious boredom in David's voice concerned the major. "The timing was a little off," he said. "We were almost twenty-five seconds behind."

"I hope this old body didn't hold
you
back."

Yaacov watched David remove his helmet and scrub his sweat drenched head. Gray was heavy at the temples and sprinkled throughout the short dark hair. At fifty, Morritt stood out among the young men of the elite squad. Even Yaacov, the commander of the unit, was over twenty years his junior. However, David possessed a commodity none of the younger men did - experience. Each commando considered it an honor to have David Morritt present. In many ways, David was a legend in their eyes, though most would never know reality from legend. And even the legends paled against the reality that would never be known by more than a few select individuals.

"Hold us back? We needed someone to hold you back." Yaacov pointed at David's empty ammunition pouches. "Have you forgotten the most important rule?"

"I know.
Don't use all your ammunition unless absolutely necessary
," David quoted.

"It could save your life one day," Yaacov said.

"Maybe, but I never get to feel the kick of a gun or smell the powder." Morritt's voice trailed off.

Yaacov glanced back to check his men and then sat down on the wall. "Do you want to talk, David?"

David turned back to the view of the village. "What's to say?" he asked.

Yaacov laid a hand on the older man's shoulder. "David? I've never seen you this bad before."

Morritt sighed and sat down on the wall. These exercises challenged the boredom, but he was becoming anaesthetized to the thrill. "I haven't felt this bad before. I suffer the curse of Bilbo Baggins."

Yaacov avoided David's eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with this Baggins fellow," he said. "Was he also in the Service?"

David threw his head back and laughed. "Yaacov, you must vary your reading. Put down your manuals and histories. You can learn much from fiction. This 'Baggins fellow' is a character in Tolkien's
The Hobbit
. After many great adventures, Bilbo couldn't settle into his old life so he wanders from home at every opportunity. His life bores him and he prays for adventure. That's me. I can't settle into the routine. All my life, any type of routine could be fatal. Now, they expect me to sit back with my feet up. I can't do it."

Yaacov knew much of David's past, although he did not know even a third of the truth. His security clearance was too low to allow for such knowledge. "You have served your country in the field for many years," he said. "The time has come for you to sit back and give others the benefit of your experience. You deserve a rest."

"I don't want to rest. I don't want to
teach
."

David had been semi-retired from the field. Politics had interfered yet again in the Mossad and many of the longer-term agents were considered a liability - or more likely a possible embarrassment. Supposedly, times were changing and the Mossad had to change with them. David hoped his was a temporary problem that his friend and head of the Mossad, Assi Levy, would solve. But until that time, David was forced to leave the field and instruct the new soldiers with their new technology.

"Look at me. I'm in excellent shape. As good as I was ten years ago. Maybe better, since I stopped smoking. My reflexes are still good. If I was a soldier, I'd still be able to fight in a war. I just want to be useful. I'm only fifty. I'm not dead, yet. You should understand how I feel."

Yaacov smiled at the man sitting beside him. He did feel for David. In less than a year, regulations would prevent the major himself from leading commando missions. The elite squad was a young man's unit. Strategy meetings and lectures would soon occupy Yaacov's time.

"Yes, I will soon be a Bilbo Baggins," Yaacov agreed. "But what can you do? Regulations are regulations. You can only make the best of your life."

"Sounds good," David said. "We'll talk again in a few years. Then you can tell me all about the wisdom of the regulations."

David shaded his eyes to watch a white and red Ecureuil II helicopter land near the two heavily armored craft. He raised his eyebrows at Yaacov. Both men rose and headed toward the sleek craft as the pilot jumped out and ran to the nearest commando. The soldier pointed at David and the pilot trotted to meet them.

The pilot saluted sharply. "Colonel Morritt?"

David returned the salute. "Yes."

"If you would come with me please, Colonel. I have orders to bring you to Tel Aviv."

David looked at Yaacov. The major shook his head and shrugged.

"Assi Levy told me to bring you immediately, Colonel," the pilot said.

At the mention of Levy's name, David's face brightened. "Then, by all means, we shall leave immediately," he said, handing Yaacov his ARM rifle and helmet.

Once in the air, David could see bulldozers heading for the destroyed village. The machines would plow the remains of the buildings under and redo the roadwork, then the construction crews would move in. By this time next week, another mockup of the Arab village would stand on the same spot, ready for the next training mission.

Turning away from the window, David wondered why Assi Levy, the
Memuneh
of the Mossad, had called him back to Tel Aviv.

D.A. Graystone — Biography