Countdown to Midnight

Six

Lieutenant Colonel Dov Tamir handed over his phone to the stern-faced guard posted at the entrance to the embassy’s secure intelligence room. Personal electronic devices of any kind were strictly forbidden inside. By definition, any information shared in the small, windowless room was classified at the very highest level.

He joined the handful of others who’d already arrived. Besides the ambassador himself and his chief of staff, they included the section heads responsible for consular affairs and trade. Together with Tamir, they formed the executive core of Israel’s diplomatic mission in Vienna.

Tamir nodded politely to the ambassador and the others and took his seat. On paper, the square-jawed former paratrooper served as Israel’s military attaché to Austria. But he wore another hat, one with far more significance at this urgent security briefing. Within the Israeli Defense Forces, the IDF, he was also a member of the Secret Liaison Unit — a group responsible for coordinating special operations with the Mossad and allied foreign intelligence outfits.

Rivka Amar was the last one to arrive. Lean and wiry, with short, curly dark hair, she was the Mossad officer attached to the embassy. She operated covertly under diplomatic cover, masquerading as a junior consular official. Once she was inside the room, she signaled the security guard to close and lock the door behind her. It latched shut with an audible click.

The ambassador waited until she took her place and then asked, “Well, Rivka, what’s the situation?” He looked understandably worried. Requests from the Mossad for emergency, top-secret meetings never involved pleasant news.

“Over the past forty-eight hours, we’ve detected signs of an around-the-clock, close surveillance operation being mounted against this embassy,” Amar said crisply. She touched a control on the keyboard in front of her. A monitor lit up. “Cameras we’ve covertly placed to cover every avenue of approach have confirmed our initial suspicions. Every person entering or leaving here is being monitored by unknown operatives using a variety of means — mostly by direct observation on foot or from vehicles, but also by at least one miniaturized aerial drone.”

As she spoke, different pictures appeared on the large screen. Some were of cars and vans parked on neighboring streets. Others showed individuals dressed either as workmen or ordinary pedestrians loitering in front of different nearby buildings. Three were views of rooftops. Enhanced versions of these images showed what appeared to be the same tiny, rotor-driven drone perched inconspicuously near chimneys and dormers. A few of the photographs were grainy, obviously taken in poorly lit conditions at night, but most were exceptionally clear.

Tamir frowned at the monitor. Lately, he’d strongly suspected they were being watched closely by someone. But he hadn’t realized the full scope of the operation until now. He swung back toward the Mossad officer. “What’s your assessment of this effort?”

“It involves a significant commitment of resources,” Amar told him. “We’ve identified at least six separate individuals among the watchers. And counted close to ten separate vehicles being used at different times. The use of remote-controlled drones is another significant indicator.”

“Of what?” the ambassador asked quietly.

“That this is a highly professional operation, one organized either by a state actor or by a sophisticated terrorist group with significant capabilities,” Amar answered somberly.

Miriam Weiss, the chief of the embassy’s consular section, frowned. “Could this be something organized by our friends over at Jaurègasse?” she asked, referring to the location of the Iranian embassy in Vienna. “Maybe as a response to the recent murder of their government official? The one who was found dead at Kitzbühel?”

Amar nodded. “That is a strong possibility. What little evidence we possess suggests this man Khavari was eliminated because he was trying to contact a foreign intelligence service… and it would be logical for Tehran to assume he was reaching out to us, their most determined enemy.”

“And are they right?” the ambassador prompted gently. “Were we trying to recruit him?”

She shook her head. “No, sir.” Then she turned toward Tamir. “Unless your people in military intelligence had their eyes on Khavari?”

“Sadly not,” he said. “I checked with colleagues in Jerusalem. This was not our baby.”

The ambassador sighed. “So this net thrown around our doors could be blowback for some other country’s espionage efforts?”

“It’s likely,” Tamir agreed. Besides checking with the IDF’s military intelligence command, he’d also privately reached out to contacts in the CIA — to see if the mess at Kitzbühel was one of their ops gone wrong. So far, though, he wasn’t getting any answers from the Americans. The current administration in Washington wasn’t especially friendly to Israel, and it was increasingly obvious that the CIA and other American intelligence agencies were playing it safe.

“Wonderful,” Weiss said dryly. “Here we sit in the crosshairs of those fanatics in Tehran, and this time it’s not even our fault.”

“Maybe,” Tamir said slowly. “And maybe not.”

Amar looked at him questioningly. “Meaning what, Dov?”

He nodded at the monitor, which was still showing the pictures taken by the Mossad officer’s concealed cameras. “Those guys don’t look at all Middle Eastern to me. More northern European or Slavic, I think. Sure, they could be disguised, but there’s a limit to what you can do with wigs or hair dye, cheek pads and the rest.” His fingers drummed lightly on the table as he studied the images closely. “If anything, I’d bet on them being Russian, or at least in Russian pay. They could be black ops specials brought in off the books by the GRU or the SVR.”

“Perhaps carrion birds of a kind are flocking together,” the ambassador suggested wryly.

“Perhaps so,” Tamir agreed. Moscow was known to be extremely interested in strengthening its already close ties to the radical regime in Tehran. Ironically, Russia’s embassy in Vienna was located just around the block from that of Iran, an accident of diplomatic geography that made potential cooperation between the two countries here in Austria even easier to organize and harder to detect. “It would not be the first time we’ve had enemies unite against us.”

The ambassador nodded unhappily. “Well, then, as I see it, our immediate problem is to decide what we should do about these men who are spying on our every move.”

“The situation is dangerous, sir,” Rivka Amar pointed out. “And the danger will only grow with every passing day.”

“How so?”

The Mossad officer gestured toward the monitor. “This hostile surveillance team is gathering an enormous amount of data about our operations here — not just our faces and those of the other embassy staff and employees, but also our vehicle registration plates, and even our regular patterns of movement.” She frowned. “This could be the precursor to something even worse — like a terrorist attack either aimed directly at the embassy or at some of our people whenever they travel out into the city at large.”

The ambassador nodded gravely. Terrorism was an ever-present concern for any Israeli, whether an ordinary civilian or a member of the government or military. “What is your recommendation, Rivka?”

“We should act against these watchers,” she replied fiercely. “I can have a team snatch one of them off the street. A short, sharp interrogation ought to tell us who they are… and who they’re working for.”

The professional diplomats in the room — the ambassador, his chief of staff, and the two section chiefs — looked alarmed by her bold proposal. None of them were cowards, but the idea of initiating a physical confrontation on the streets of a neutral foreign capital was far outside their comfort zone. Tough action in the diplomatic world meant issuing a strongly worded protest note, not forcing a hostile agent into the back of a car and hauling him off for questioning. If anything went wrong, the embassy could easily find itself entangled in an embarrassing no-win confrontation with its host country, Austria.

Dov Tamir tamped down a grin. Amar reminded him of himself as a young soldier — fearless, aggressive, and focused on achieving victory, whatever the cost. Unfortunately, he had enough experience now to see the likely outcome here. The odds were very much against the embassy’s senior paper pushers approving Amar’s plan. Caution was the virtue drummed into members of the foreign service, not daring.

Warily, the ambassador turned to Tamir. “Dov?”

“Rivka’s idea involves a significant amount of risk,” Tamir conceded. He shrugged his shoulders. “But it’s equally true that doing nothing carries its own set of hazards. So I think we should do what she suggests. Personally, I would rather be damned by the Austrians for acting on our own, than get caught with our pants down later by a terror attack we could have preempted.”

There was silence in the room for a few moments. But then, slowly, almost regretfully, the ambassador shook his head. “Aggressive action seems… premature,” he said at last. “I’m not yet persuaded the situation warrants extreme measures.” Miriam Weiss and the others looked relieved.

Seeing Amar open her mouth to object, Tamir caught his Mossad colleague’s eye and shook his own head slightly, almost imperceptibly. There were times when it was necessary to fight against overwhelming odds. This was not one of them. The ambassador and his senior counselors had plainly made up their minds, and it would do no good now to alienate them. She sat back in her chair, looking frustrated.

“We could file a confidential complaint with the Austrian authorities,” Weiss suggested. “Surely, the local police are better equipped to handle this matter.”

“That would be a mistake,” Tamir warned.

“Why?” the consular chief asked, puzzled.

“Because whatever we tell them is bound to leak,” he explained patiently. “Especially if the Russians are involved. We’re not the only ones with contacts inside the government here. And if these people learn that we’re onto their game, they’ll just pull back a bit and set up a new surveillance perimeter outside our easy reach. At least now, we can watch them while they watch us.”

The ambassador nodded in agreement. “Dov makes a good point, Miriam. For the time being, it’s best if we simply watch and wait.” He looked at Amar. “Please keep your eyes open, Rivka. And let me know at once if there any further developments.” Unhurriedly, he rose and left the secure room, followed by Weiss and the others.

Rivka Amar waited until they were gone and then shook her head in disbelief. “So that’s it?” she said indignantly. “We just sit here on our asses under virtual siege… and do nothing?”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of high-level international relations,” Tamir said with a thin, dry smile.

She glared at him. “If you’re trying to comfort me here, Dov, it’s not working.”

“No comfort intended,” he told her. “Just a reality check.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean I plan to do nothing.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve got one card left to play,” Tamir said. “An old friend and former colleague in Jerusalem named Gideon Ayish. He’s a research fellow at an international think tank now. They monitor terrorist groups and terrorist-supporting governments, like Iran. In the past, I’ve found sharing insights and information with him to be extremely useful.”

“A think tank?” Amar said pointedly. “What is it you hope this Ayish will do for us? Craft an impeccably researched position paper that will somehow persuade the ambassador to stop screwing around?”

“Not quite,” Tamir said cryptically. “Gideon has a very wide range of rather unusual friends and contacts. And some of them, I suspect, do a lot more than just write research papers.”

Gideon Ayish finished reading Dov Tamir’s email and sat back with a frown. His high forehead wrinkled in thought. His longtime friend had used a simple personal code they’d arranged between themselves years ago. To an outsider, it would have seemed like nothing more than a breezy summary of Tamir’s recent life in Vienna — where the usual grind of boring government business was broken only by rare interludes of pleasure at coffeehouses and concert halls.

The real message it conveyed was significantly more worrying.

He swiveled around in his chair to look out the windows of his office. From here, high up the slopes of Mount Scopus, he had a view of the Old City and the Mount of Olives. The golden-topped Dome of the Rock gleamed, lit by the last rays of the sun setting beyond the western hills.

Ayish steepled his fingers for a few moments, considering his options. Then he checked his watch. At this time of day, it wouldn’t take him more than an hour to get to Ben Gurion Airport. One of the benefits of living in a small country, he thought — though that was a cold comfort when missiles started flying. He swung back to his desk and picked up the phone.

His personal assistant answered it on the first ring. “Yes, Professor Ayish?”

“I want you to book me on the next available flight to the United States,” he said.

“To Washington, D.C.? Or New York?” she asked, not fazed by this sudden request. Ayish’s work for the Institute often involved a great deal of overseas travel.

“Whichever will get me there the soonest,” he told her. “But then I’ll need a connecting flight. To Orlando.”

Now he heard the surprise in her voice. “Orlando, Professor? In Florida?”

Ayish smiled ruefully. “Relax, Sarah,” he reassured her. “I may be older than I would like, but I’m not slipping into my second childhood. This is a work trip, not a vacation excursion to Disney World.”