End of Days, page 13
He walked her to the car, making small talk. She was from Senegal and had been in Italy for close to two years. She lived with a group of women, but had no pimp. She was here illegally, but wanted to get a work permit to let her quit this life. Endless chitchat, making Garrett sad.
He was convinced he was doing her a favor. She would never leave this purgatory, and he was giving her a second chance for the afterlife. She would be a brick in the wall of the second coming. Like Rahab, it was probably the greatest thing she could ever aspire to.
He drove east, winding through the neighborhoods, eventually passing the park next to his rental complex. He stopped his car in the shadows of the west end of the building, leading her through the darkness to a side door away from the security cameras and streetlamps from the primary entrance. When they continued in the darkness instead of moving to the light of the main entrance, she became suspicious, saying, “Why aren’t we going in the front?”
He said, “My apartment is right above us. It’s just quicker.”
She nodded and he opened the door to a stairwell with a flourish of his hand. She entered and they went up two floors, then exited into a hallway. He led her forward, reaching the apartment door.
He punched in the code to the door, heard it unlock, then swung it wide for her. She smiled again and entered.
He followed behind, pulling a red cord out of his jacket pocket, each end having a piece of wood threaded through to make it easier to use.
Chapter 26
I checked my watch for probably the fortieth time, seeing it was now 11:30 a.m. Almost showtime. I was sitting on a bench in Lidenhof Park, right smack-dab in the center of Zurich’s old town, this time all by myself. I got on the radio and conducted a comms check with all of my bumper positions, making sure they were prepared to execute, and each one acknowledged they were set and ready to go. That was small comfort, because this operation was running the ragged edge of my team’s capability.
The mission had changed, and we were nowhere near the size needed for the new scope, but after the Taskforce call last night, everything had ratcheted up.
It had been George Wolffe on the phone, and the situation had morphed drastically from me being on a boondoggle with the Israelis, out in the wind on my own. A U.S. diplomat had been executed in Italy, with the same type of note the Israelis had found on their dead Ramsad crammed in her mouth. Keta’ib Hezbollah had claimed credit, and the president of the United States was now out for blood. Which was good for me, but bad given the size of my team.
I’d told Wolffe my plan about the mugging to get the thumb drive, then the follow-on hit in Bahrain, and, for the first time in my Taskforce career, he had stunned me. Instead of the usual mealy-mouthed Oversight Council pushback whenever I wanted to do something, he took it to the next level, telling me to drop the mugging idea and go with a full-on takedown. He wanted me to extract the target from the middle of Zurich—a metropolitan city—in broad daylight, then get him on the Rock Star bird and evacuate him to Aviano Air Base in Italy, a U.S.-controlled facility where Taskforce interrogators would be standing by.
The idea held merit, because clearly this guy knew a lot of what was going on, so when he’d asked me if I could accomplish the mission, of course I’d said yes. After all of my bitching on other missions about being held back because the Oversight Council were a bunch of cowards, there was no way I was going to say no. But it was going to be a little tight.
I had Shoshana as the trigger at the apartment, but we were going to rely on his habitual pattern from there. Knuckles would pick him up at the hotel, leaving Brett, Aaron, and me to take him down. Jennifer would be up the street with a Land Rover for exfil. Once the action had occurred, and we’d loaded him up, Shoshana would use the other Land Rover to evacuate the team. Easy day, except it left nothing for contingencies. If it went the way we planned, there would be no problem, but like Mike Tyson said, everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.
At 11:43, Shoshana came on the net, “Professor is on the move. Same direction as yesterday.”
I said, “Roger. Knuckles, that means about fifteen minutes until he breaks the door of the Kindli hotel.”
He said, “Roger all. Standing by.”
Shoshana came back on and said, “He’s got his laptop with him this time.”
Shit. While we intended to take this guy off the board, the original plan was still in play. We’d get the thumb drive information and still have the option of executing my original mission, if that’s what the Oversight Council thought was best. That plan required us to take the Professor before he had a chance to transmit the linkup information to the mysterious Bosniak, allowing the Taskforce to set up their own trap. If he had the laptop, he had the ability to extract the message and resend in one trip. But maybe he had it just to surf porn after he had the message.
One could hope.
I fidgeted on the bench, watching some elderly gentlemen playing chess on permanent tables set in the park for that purpose. Still wearing masks, they refused to let a pandemic alter their routine. I envied them in a way, wondering about each of their life stories. As usual when seeing someone that age, I wondered if maybe they’d been dropped behind enemy lines in France or were Swiss spies in the Reichstag, but given the march of time, probably not. Those gems were leaving this earth every single day.
My radio came alive: “All elements, all elements, this is Knuckles. I have eyes on. He’s at the computer.”
I said, “Roger,” and waited, feeling the adrenaline rise. If he followed his pattern of life, he would leave the hotel and travel up a ramp to the hill in the park, the ramp itself cut into the side of the hill and lined with cinder-block walls until it reached the top. It was a perfect surveillance detection route because it would highlight anyone behind him.
If he kept true to form, he would exit the park on a similar ramp, dropping down off the hill to the streets below with walls on his left and right growing as he sank back down. As before, it was a perfect use for an SDR, but unfortunately for him, it was also perfect for a hit.
Once he started down that ramp, he would be lost to sight from anyone who wasn’t actually using the same walkway, and that’s where we were going to take him. Brett was at the bottom, prepared to walk up. I was at the top, coming from that end. Knuckles would provide rear security, locking down the back door, while Aaron would do the same from the bottom, both prepared to react. But I really didn’t think that would be necessary. He was an old dude, and I was sure the sight of a suppressed pistol would gain us compliance.
The streets around here were pedestrian only, so Jennifer was parked about a block away on an avenue called Kuttlegasse. All we had to do was walk him there, and we were done. I didn’t have any real qualms about the mission, because we weren’t dealing with a hardened terrorist who had seen combat and would rather die than be caught. We were interdicting a money guy, who would probably soil himself when he saw my pistol.
But there was always Mike Tyson.
Knuckles said, “Bad news. He’s got the message, and he’s plugging it into his computer.”
Which was something I didn’t want to hear. I said, “Is he going to transmit the message out?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. No other reason to bring the laptop.”
I said, “Can you interdict? Force him to leave before?”
“You want me to make a scene here? Pull out my pistol and start ranting about Muslims or something?”
I realized I was grasping at straws. I said, “What about cutting the hotel computer? Can you do something to interdict it? Maybe walk to it while he’s on his laptop and make it crash?”
“Too late. He’s done. He’s put the thumb drive back into the computer, and he’s typing.”
Damn it.
I said, “Okay, okay, we got a Mike Tyson punch. Continue the mission. We get the next punch.”
Two minutes later, Knuckles said, “He’s on the move. I have five-five. Same path.”
I clicked on the net and said, “Koko, Blood, you ready?”
Jennifer said, “Car is staged. Engine running.”
Brett said, “Yeah. You call him on the ramp, and I’m on the move.”
“Roger all. Carrie, what’s your status?”
“In the Rover and on the way. Don’t wait on me. I’ll be there.”
“Good to go.”
Two minutes later, Knuckles said, “He’s in the park. Headed your way.”
I glanced left and saw the Professor, moving at a leisurely pace and glancing around. Looking for the bad man. He passed right in front of me and began the long walk down the far side ramp out of the park. I said, “All elements, all elements, I have control. Stand by.”
And rose to follow.
When he reached the point where his head was below the walls around him I said, “Execute,” and saw Brett coming up the other way. We closed on him rapidly, meeting at the bottom of the ramp, with about twenty feet to the street. I tapped the target on the shoulder and he turned. I put my pistol into his gut and said, “Don’t move.”
Brett came up behind him and trapped his arms behind his back. His eyes went wide and he sagged into the stone wall.
Perfect.
He was the bad guy, and he knew it. But he wasn’t willing to fight.
I said, “Hand me the laptop.”
He did so. I continued, “We’re going to walk out of this park and one block up. If you try to fight us or flee, you’ll be dead. Do you understand?”
He nodded dumbly and I said, “Let’s go.”
From the top of the ramp, Knuckles said, “Hold what you got. Biker on the way.”
I pushed Professor into the wall and said, “Just remain quiet. Any noise, and you’re dead.”
I glanced up and saw a guy on a mountain bike coming down the path, decked out in cycling gear. Brett let go of the target’s arms, but I kept the pistol in his gut, hidden by my body. The biker slowed down due to the slope of the ramp and the stairs at the bottom, coming almost to a standstill right next to us. I heard Brett hiss, “Gun!” and then heard a suppressed pop.
The Professor’s head exploded right in front of me, the stone wall coated with brain matter. He collapsed like someone had turned off the power to his body, rolling on the ground, his left eye open, unseeing, his right a gout of blood.
What the fuck?
For a split second, I couldn’t assimilate what had happened, but my reflexes took over. I rotated my pistol to the biker and saw him racing away, Brett chasing him with his own pistol out. The biker jumped down the small set of stairs at the bottom and disappeared.
Aaron came on, saying, “Couple coming up about to enter. What’s the status?”
I said, “Stall them.”
Brett came racing back to me and said, “What the hell just happened?”
I said, “I don’t know. Find the drive. Get the drive.”
We ripped through his clothes, Brett finding a thumb drive in his jacket pocket. He held it up and I said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
We speed-walked down the ramp and stairs, passed Aaron asking a couple for directions, and then began sprinting up the street, me on the net saying, “All elements, all elements, abort, abort, abort. Meet back at the hotel.”
Chapter 27
George Wolffe finished his overview of Pike’s actions in Switzerland and paused, waiting on the inevitable questions from the Oversight Council. Unfortunately for him, the lead-off batter was President Hannister himself.
He leaned back in his chair and said, “So we gave you authority to capture this guy in Switzerland, and you killed him instead. That’s not something I would expect with Taskforce operations. You are the scalpel I use when absolutely necessary, not a killing force like Putin employs. This guy was in no way DOA. I never said that, and from your briefing, I’m unsure if that’s exactly what Pike executed.”
DOA was a Taskforce designation rarely employed, meaning the threat was so great to United States interests that the target could be neutralized dead or alive. It was the closest designation in the United States government sanctioning an assassination, but only if capture was not feasible, and only if the threat was so great it posed an existential threat.
It was one more example of the illegality of the unit, because it directly went against EO 12333, an executive order that prohibited assassination signed by President Hannister, like every president before him since Gerald Ford had created it. Wolffe knew the delicate nature of the designation, not the least because he knew how Taskforce operators treated it when assigned.
When it was given, the Taskforce operators colloquially called it “Dead on Arrival,” because it was much easier to kill a man than capture him. If DOA was given, nine times out of ten, the target was going home in a body bag. But that wasn’t what had happened here.
Wolffe said, “Sir, as I said, Pike didn’t kill him. Someone else did, and we think it was precisely to keep Pike from knowing what was in his head. In my opinion, the Israelis may be right on this. There’s something more at play than Keta’ib Hezbollah. This isn’t Iran pulling strings because we killed General Soleimani.”
“The Israelis? They’re breaking down my door through back channels to attack Iran using nothing more than letters as proof. They’re pushing me to a place I don’t want to go. And they’re not the only ones. I have bipartisan commendation of Iran building exponentially. The death of Gabrielle in Italy is going to force my hand, regardless of the truth.”
Wolffe knew the pressure he was under. One only needed to turn on the television to see the massive number of “experts” preening about regime change in Iran.
He said, “I meant the small section of Mossad that gave Aaron and Shoshana the mission. There are some who think this is deeper than just Iran projecting power through proxy forces.”
Alexander Palmer chuckled and said, “Well, that would be good news, if it’s true. Please tell us you have something to prove it.”
Wolffe flipped a slide on the screen, showing the two messages from the courier. He said, “Unfortunately, no, I don’t. All Pike was able to glean was a lead. There’s a linkup planned for the transfer of money to a Keta’ib Hezbollah cell in Bahrain. They’re apparently targeting someone in that country. We don’t know who the target might be, but we do know where they’re going to meet for the transfer of the funds.”
Palmer said, “Another Keta’ib cell? How is this not proof in and of itself? We aren’t talking about a letter here supposedly created by an imposter.”
President Hannister said, “Where’s the money coming from? Who’s the paymaster?”
Wolffe used a laser pointer and went through the two messages. “The cell thinks it’s Iran, but Pike doesn’t. The guy coming is from Bosnia—apparently some sort of trained killer—and the entire linkup plan is strange. If it were Iran, they’d just order the guys to meet. In this case, the first message is asking, not telling, and it’s not some Qods Force trainer like Iran would ordinarily send. It’s a Bosniak assassin.”
The secretary of defense said, “Iran was neck-deep in Bosnia during the war there. A Bosniak involved doesn’t seem that strange to me. Sounds more like plausible deniability.”
Amanda Croft said, “Can’t we track the money backwards? From the guy who was killed?”
“We have his laptop, and the network operations guys are going through it remotely right now, but from what Pike’s seen, the contact had pretty good operational security. He doesn’t think anything’s going to be on it.”
Palmer started to ask another question and President Hannister interrupted, saying, “We’re not going to get anywhere from inside the Oval Office. What are you asking here? What’s the next step?”
Wolffe said, “Sir, let Pike take the team to the linkup in Bahrain. He’s convinced the Bosnian is the key here. Pike wants Omega to roll him up. He’s bringing the money, and he’ll obviously know where it came from. If it’s Iran, at least you’ll have solid evidence instead of shooting in the dark. If it’s not, we’ll have the thread to pull it apart—and Pike’s starting to think it’s not.”
Palmer said, “Based on what?”
Wolffe said, “Based on his intuition. He’s the man on the ground.”
Hannister looked around the room and said, “Put it to a vote.”
Before they did, Palmer said, “Wait, sir, how are they going? What’s the cover status?”
Wolffe said, “They’re going as Israelis.”
“Seriously? Does Israel know?”
Wolffe shut down his laptop, then turned to President Hannister, ignoring Palmer. He said, “Sir, I don’t know who in Israel is read on to this, but Aaron and Shoshana are providing the support, and Bahrain recently signed a peace deal with Israel. They’re sure it’s not an issue, and Pike is game. Trust the man on the ground.”
Palmer said, “That’s asking for compromise not only from the operation, but from Israel. Before, this was just a reconnaissance operation. Now you’re asking for Omega when the last one ended up with a dead target. Given the target was provided by the Israelis, they’ve got to be looking into that, and if they don’t know, and find out an American team was operating as Israelis, they’ll lose their minds. Israel will throw us under the bus as soon as they can.”
Wolffe said, “The Israeli passports Pike’s team is using came from the Mossad. Someone there already knows they’re operational.”
Palmer threw his hands in the air and said, “Someone with power? Or some Mossad lunatic who’s operating outside of its own charter? There’s a big difference between one lone operative going off the reservation to provide passports and the sanctioning of an operation with the blessing of Israel’s version of the national command authority.”
Wolffe said, “It is what it is. You’re afraid of the compromise, but not the impending casualty. If we do nothing, and another American diplomat is killed, what then? We’re out of threads to chase, and looking at war. Even if this is Iran, stopping the assassination in and of itself should be enough to launch.”
He was convinced he was doing her a favor. She would never leave this purgatory, and he was giving her a second chance for the afterlife. She would be a brick in the wall of the second coming. Like Rahab, it was probably the greatest thing she could ever aspire to.
He drove east, winding through the neighborhoods, eventually passing the park next to his rental complex. He stopped his car in the shadows of the west end of the building, leading her through the darkness to a side door away from the security cameras and streetlamps from the primary entrance. When they continued in the darkness instead of moving to the light of the main entrance, she became suspicious, saying, “Why aren’t we going in the front?”
He said, “My apartment is right above us. It’s just quicker.”
She nodded and he opened the door to a stairwell with a flourish of his hand. She entered and they went up two floors, then exited into a hallway. He led her forward, reaching the apartment door.
He punched in the code to the door, heard it unlock, then swung it wide for her. She smiled again and entered.
He followed behind, pulling a red cord out of his jacket pocket, each end having a piece of wood threaded through to make it easier to use.
Chapter 26
I checked my watch for probably the fortieth time, seeing it was now 11:30 a.m. Almost showtime. I was sitting on a bench in Lidenhof Park, right smack-dab in the center of Zurich’s old town, this time all by myself. I got on the radio and conducted a comms check with all of my bumper positions, making sure they were prepared to execute, and each one acknowledged they were set and ready to go. That was small comfort, because this operation was running the ragged edge of my team’s capability.
The mission had changed, and we were nowhere near the size needed for the new scope, but after the Taskforce call last night, everything had ratcheted up.
It had been George Wolffe on the phone, and the situation had morphed drastically from me being on a boondoggle with the Israelis, out in the wind on my own. A U.S. diplomat had been executed in Italy, with the same type of note the Israelis had found on their dead Ramsad crammed in her mouth. Keta’ib Hezbollah had claimed credit, and the president of the United States was now out for blood. Which was good for me, but bad given the size of my team.
I’d told Wolffe my plan about the mugging to get the thumb drive, then the follow-on hit in Bahrain, and, for the first time in my Taskforce career, he had stunned me. Instead of the usual mealy-mouthed Oversight Council pushback whenever I wanted to do something, he took it to the next level, telling me to drop the mugging idea and go with a full-on takedown. He wanted me to extract the target from the middle of Zurich—a metropolitan city—in broad daylight, then get him on the Rock Star bird and evacuate him to Aviano Air Base in Italy, a U.S.-controlled facility where Taskforce interrogators would be standing by.
The idea held merit, because clearly this guy knew a lot of what was going on, so when he’d asked me if I could accomplish the mission, of course I’d said yes. After all of my bitching on other missions about being held back because the Oversight Council were a bunch of cowards, there was no way I was going to say no. But it was going to be a little tight.
I had Shoshana as the trigger at the apartment, but we were going to rely on his habitual pattern from there. Knuckles would pick him up at the hotel, leaving Brett, Aaron, and me to take him down. Jennifer would be up the street with a Land Rover for exfil. Once the action had occurred, and we’d loaded him up, Shoshana would use the other Land Rover to evacuate the team. Easy day, except it left nothing for contingencies. If it went the way we planned, there would be no problem, but like Mike Tyson said, everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.
At 11:43, Shoshana came on the net, “Professor is on the move. Same direction as yesterday.”
I said, “Roger. Knuckles, that means about fifteen minutes until he breaks the door of the Kindli hotel.”
He said, “Roger all. Standing by.”
Shoshana came back on and said, “He’s got his laptop with him this time.”
Shit. While we intended to take this guy off the board, the original plan was still in play. We’d get the thumb drive information and still have the option of executing my original mission, if that’s what the Oversight Council thought was best. That plan required us to take the Professor before he had a chance to transmit the linkup information to the mysterious Bosniak, allowing the Taskforce to set up their own trap. If he had the laptop, he had the ability to extract the message and resend in one trip. But maybe he had it just to surf porn after he had the message.
One could hope.
I fidgeted on the bench, watching some elderly gentlemen playing chess on permanent tables set in the park for that purpose. Still wearing masks, they refused to let a pandemic alter their routine. I envied them in a way, wondering about each of their life stories. As usual when seeing someone that age, I wondered if maybe they’d been dropped behind enemy lines in France or were Swiss spies in the Reichstag, but given the march of time, probably not. Those gems were leaving this earth every single day.
My radio came alive: “All elements, all elements, this is Knuckles. I have eyes on. He’s at the computer.”
I said, “Roger,” and waited, feeling the adrenaline rise. If he followed his pattern of life, he would leave the hotel and travel up a ramp to the hill in the park, the ramp itself cut into the side of the hill and lined with cinder-block walls until it reached the top. It was a perfect surveillance detection route because it would highlight anyone behind him.
If he kept true to form, he would exit the park on a similar ramp, dropping down off the hill to the streets below with walls on his left and right growing as he sank back down. As before, it was a perfect use for an SDR, but unfortunately for him, it was also perfect for a hit.
Once he started down that ramp, he would be lost to sight from anyone who wasn’t actually using the same walkway, and that’s where we were going to take him. Brett was at the bottom, prepared to walk up. I was at the top, coming from that end. Knuckles would provide rear security, locking down the back door, while Aaron would do the same from the bottom, both prepared to react. But I really didn’t think that would be necessary. He was an old dude, and I was sure the sight of a suppressed pistol would gain us compliance.
The streets around here were pedestrian only, so Jennifer was parked about a block away on an avenue called Kuttlegasse. All we had to do was walk him there, and we were done. I didn’t have any real qualms about the mission, because we weren’t dealing with a hardened terrorist who had seen combat and would rather die than be caught. We were interdicting a money guy, who would probably soil himself when he saw my pistol.
But there was always Mike Tyson.
Knuckles said, “Bad news. He’s got the message, and he’s plugging it into his computer.”
Which was something I didn’t want to hear. I said, “Is he going to transmit the message out?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. No other reason to bring the laptop.”
I said, “Can you interdict? Force him to leave before?”
“You want me to make a scene here? Pull out my pistol and start ranting about Muslims or something?”
I realized I was grasping at straws. I said, “What about cutting the hotel computer? Can you do something to interdict it? Maybe walk to it while he’s on his laptop and make it crash?”
“Too late. He’s done. He’s put the thumb drive back into the computer, and he’s typing.”
Damn it.
I said, “Okay, okay, we got a Mike Tyson punch. Continue the mission. We get the next punch.”
Two minutes later, Knuckles said, “He’s on the move. I have five-five. Same path.”
I clicked on the net and said, “Koko, Blood, you ready?”
Jennifer said, “Car is staged. Engine running.”
Brett said, “Yeah. You call him on the ramp, and I’m on the move.”
“Roger all. Carrie, what’s your status?”
“In the Rover and on the way. Don’t wait on me. I’ll be there.”
“Good to go.”
Two minutes later, Knuckles said, “He’s in the park. Headed your way.”
I glanced left and saw the Professor, moving at a leisurely pace and glancing around. Looking for the bad man. He passed right in front of me and began the long walk down the far side ramp out of the park. I said, “All elements, all elements, I have control. Stand by.”
And rose to follow.
When he reached the point where his head was below the walls around him I said, “Execute,” and saw Brett coming up the other way. We closed on him rapidly, meeting at the bottom of the ramp, with about twenty feet to the street. I tapped the target on the shoulder and he turned. I put my pistol into his gut and said, “Don’t move.”
Brett came up behind him and trapped his arms behind his back. His eyes went wide and he sagged into the stone wall.
Perfect.
He was the bad guy, and he knew it. But he wasn’t willing to fight.
I said, “Hand me the laptop.”
He did so. I continued, “We’re going to walk out of this park and one block up. If you try to fight us or flee, you’ll be dead. Do you understand?”
He nodded dumbly and I said, “Let’s go.”
From the top of the ramp, Knuckles said, “Hold what you got. Biker on the way.”
I pushed Professor into the wall and said, “Just remain quiet. Any noise, and you’re dead.”
I glanced up and saw a guy on a mountain bike coming down the path, decked out in cycling gear. Brett let go of the target’s arms, but I kept the pistol in his gut, hidden by my body. The biker slowed down due to the slope of the ramp and the stairs at the bottom, coming almost to a standstill right next to us. I heard Brett hiss, “Gun!” and then heard a suppressed pop.
The Professor’s head exploded right in front of me, the stone wall coated with brain matter. He collapsed like someone had turned off the power to his body, rolling on the ground, his left eye open, unseeing, his right a gout of blood.
What the fuck?
For a split second, I couldn’t assimilate what had happened, but my reflexes took over. I rotated my pistol to the biker and saw him racing away, Brett chasing him with his own pistol out. The biker jumped down the small set of stairs at the bottom and disappeared.
Aaron came on, saying, “Couple coming up about to enter. What’s the status?”
I said, “Stall them.”
Brett came racing back to me and said, “What the hell just happened?”
I said, “I don’t know. Find the drive. Get the drive.”
We ripped through his clothes, Brett finding a thumb drive in his jacket pocket. He held it up and I said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
We speed-walked down the ramp and stairs, passed Aaron asking a couple for directions, and then began sprinting up the street, me on the net saying, “All elements, all elements, abort, abort, abort. Meet back at the hotel.”
Chapter 27
George Wolffe finished his overview of Pike’s actions in Switzerland and paused, waiting on the inevitable questions from the Oversight Council. Unfortunately for him, the lead-off batter was President Hannister himself.
He leaned back in his chair and said, “So we gave you authority to capture this guy in Switzerland, and you killed him instead. That’s not something I would expect with Taskforce operations. You are the scalpel I use when absolutely necessary, not a killing force like Putin employs. This guy was in no way DOA. I never said that, and from your briefing, I’m unsure if that’s exactly what Pike executed.”
DOA was a Taskforce designation rarely employed, meaning the threat was so great to United States interests that the target could be neutralized dead or alive. It was the closest designation in the United States government sanctioning an assassination, but only if capture was not feasible, and only if the threat was so great it posed an existential threat.
It was one more example of the illegality of the unit, because it directly went against EO 12333, an executive order that prohibited assassination signed by President Hannister, like every president before him since Gerald Ford had created it. Wolffe knew the delicate nature of the designation, not the least because he knew how Taskforce operators treated it when assigned.
When it was given, the Taskforce operators colloquially called it “Dead on Arrival,” because it was much easier to kill a man than capture him. If DOA was given, nine times out of ten, the target was going home in a body bag. But that wasn’t what had happened here.
Wolffe said, “Sir, as I said, Pike didn’t kill him. Someone else did, and we think it was precisely to keep Pike from knowing what was in his head. In my opinion, the Israelis may be right on this. There’s something more at play than Keta’ib Hezbollah. This isn’t Iran pulling strings because we killed General Soleimani.”
“The Israelis? They’re breaking down my door through back channels to attack Iran using nothing more than letters as proof. They’re pushing me to a place I don’t want to go. And they’re not the only ones. I have bipartisan commendation of Iran building exponentially. The death of Gabrielle in Italy is going to force my hand, regardless of the truth.”
Wolffe knew the pressure he was under. One only needed to turn on the television to see the massive number of “experts” preening about regime change in Iran.
He said, “I meant the small section of Mossad that gave Aaron and Shoshana the mission. There are some who think this is deeper than just Iran projecting power through proxy forces.”
Alexander Palmer chuckled and said, “Well, that would be good news, if it’s true. Please tell us you have something to prove it.”
Wolffe flipped a slide on the screen, showing the two messages from the courier. He said, “Unfortunately, no, I don’t. All Pike was able to glean was a lead. There’s a linkup planned for the transfer of money to a Keta’ib Hezbollah cell in Bahrain. They’re apparently targeting someone in that country. We don’t know who the target might be, but we do know where they’re going to meet for the transfer of the funds.”
Palmer said, “Another Keta’ib cell? How is this not proof in and of itself? We aren’t talking about a letter here supposedly created by an imposter.”
President Hannister said, “Where’s the money coming from? Who’s the paymaster?”
Wolffe used a laser pointer and went through the two messages. “The cell thinks it’s Iran, but Pike doesn’t. The guy coming is from Bosnia—apparently some sort of trained killer—and the entire linkup plan is strange. If it were Iran, they’d just order the guys to meet. In this case, the first message is asking, not telling, and it’s not some Qods Force trainer like Iran would ordinarily send. It’s a Bosniak assassin.”
The secretary of defense said, “Iran was neck-deep in Bosnia during the war there. A Bosniak involved doesn’t seem that strange to me. Sounds more like plausible deniability.”
Amanda Croft said, “Can’t we track the money backwards? From the guy who was killed?”
“We have his laptop, and the network operations guys are going through it remotely right now, but from what Pike’s seen, the contact had pretty good operational security. He doesn’t think anything’s going to be on it.”
Palmer started to ask another question and President Hannister interrupted, saying, “We’re not going to get anywhere from inside the Oval Office. What are you asking here? What’s the next step?”
Wolffe said, “Sir, let Pike take the team to the linkup in Bahrain. He’s convinced the Bosnian is the key here. Pike wants Omega to roll him up. He’s bringing the money, and he’ll obviously know where it came from. If it’s Iran, at least you’ll have solid evidence instead of shooting in the dark. If it’s not, we’ll have the thread to pull it apart—and Pike’s starting to think it’s not.”
Palmer said, “Based on what?”
Wolffe said, “Based on his intuition. He’s the man on the ground.”
Hannister looked around the room and said, “Put it to a vote.”
Before they did, Palmer said, “Wait, sir, how are they going? What’s the cover status?”
Wolffe said, “They’re going as Israelis.”
“Seriously? Does Israel know?”
Wolffe shut down his laptop, then turned to President Hannister, ignoring Palmer. He said, “Sir, I don’t know who in Israel is read on to this, but Aaron and Shoshana are providing the support, and Bahrain recently signed a peace deal with Israel. They’re sure it’s not an issue, and Pike is game. Trust the man on the ground.”
Palmer said, “That’s asking for compromise not only from the operation, but from Israel. Before, this was just a reconnaissance operation. Now you’re asking for Omega when the last one ended up with a dead target. Given the target was provided by the Israelis, they’ve got to be looking into that, and if they don’t know, and find out an American team was operating as Israelis, they’ll lose their minds. Israel will throw us under the bus as soon as they can.”
Wolffe said, “The Israeli passports Pike’s team is using came from the Mossad. Someone there already knows they’re operational.”
Palmer threw his hands in the air and said, “Someone with power? Or some Mossad lunatic who’s operating outside of its own charter? There’s a big difference between one lone operative going off the reservation to provide passports and the sanctioning of an operation with the blessing of Israel’s version of the national command authority.”
Wolffe said, “It is what it is. You’re afraid of the compromise, but not the impending casualty. If we do nothing, and another American diplomat is killed, what then? We’re out of threads to chase, and looking at war. Even if this is Iran, stopping the assassination in and of itself should be enough to launch.”
