The Perfect Assassin

Chapter Eleven

It was nearly midnight as a lone Chevy Suburban crept across the Libyan Desert south of Tripoli. To go any faster was out of the question. The “road,” as it was referred to locally, was in miserable shape. Recent heavy rains had added deep ruts to the already rocky trail surface. It was more of a path, really, an old trader’s route that meandered through the desert in such a way as to avoid the highest hills and the deepest wadis. With no moon to help, the desert was particularly dark, and the big truck’s headlights bounced along through the surrounding blackness, illuminating only the most obvious trouble spots.

The driver kept to his pace. In the rear, Colonel Muhammed Al-Quatan frowned impatiently. The fact that they were three hours late could easily be blamed on the flight that had been so annoyingly behind schedule in delivering their guest. None of the truck’s occupants knew their good fortune — it was the closest Libyan Air Flight 113 from Paris had been to being on time all week.

The driver brought the big vehicle to a crunching halt. Since leaving Tripoli there had been constant banter between the two Arab men in front, and now with a fork looming in the road ahead, they began to argue over navigation, each pointing adamantly in a different direction. Colonel Al-Quatan interjected in rapid-fire Arabic, his authoritative tone doing more to settle the dispute than his words. The driver gloated obviously and the pounding journey resumed.

Al-Quatan settled back into his seat, idly wondering where they found some of these imbeciles. Many of the newest ones were almost children, a fact that would unbalance any sense of right or honor in a more conventional commander. But this was not a conventional war, and no commander could ignore the arsenal they provided. That odd, almost divine self-discipline that let them walk into a crowded café with five kilos of high explosives strapped to their chests. Al-Quatan knew he had such men and women in his camp. Unfortunately, for every one of them he had ten idiots like the ones up front, a fact that constantly sidetracked him from more important matters. He glowered silently, just waiting for one of them to make another mistake. If they made fools of themselves again, he would take the butt of his pistol and make a very sorry example out of somebody.

Al-Quatan took another discreet look at the truck’s fourth occupant, who sat beside him, the one he’d been sent to retrieve. Since leaving Tripoli, the man had been quiet. His round, dark eyes were now cast aimlessly out the window, looking for — what? A way out? It was too late for that. A friend? Not for a thousand miles, if there were any left. Perhaps just a rock to crawl under. At least he’d had the balls to come, Al-Quatan thought. Or perhaps he was just scared out of his mind. The man’s physical appearance was not in keeping with his post. He was a sergeant in the Israeli Defense Forces, yet looked nothing like a soldier. Probably five-foot-five, he carried forty extra pounds in all the wrong places. His eyes and hair were dark, yet his skin pale and taut — a man who spent little time outside an air-conditioned office cubicle. Al-Quatan thought he looked soft, like a large spoiled child who’d been ruined by too many trips to the sweetshop, not a square-jawed warrior from Aman, Israel’s vaunted military intelligence arm. Shrewd and cunning, then? Clearly not, based on the hole he’d dug for himself.

No, Al-Quatan had been blessed by Allah with a knack for sizing up people, and this one was a weakling. Clay ready for firm hands to mold. Perhaps the Zionists weren’t ten feet tall after all. At any rate, he had at least been respectful, which was more than Al-Quatan usually got from foreigners. In particular, he disliked the Europeans. The French, the Germans, the Brits — they were all so maddeningly arrogant. But the dog sitting across from him had its tail between its legs, and Al-Quatan couldn’t wait to see him squirm under Moustafa Khalif’s merciless heel.

The Colonel took out a pack of Marlboros, tapped the box until one protruded, then held it out to the Israeli. It was a gesture of kindness akin to what a condemned man might get from the commander of his firing squad.

The man’s eyes focused on the offer. “No, thank you,” he muttered in rapid English.

Al-Quatan shrugged, took one for himself, lit up, and took a long draw. He wore a very satisfied expression. “We are nearly there,” Al-Quatan announced. “Moustafa Khalif wishes to see you right away.”

Sergeant Pytor Roth nodded and straightened up in his seat. He looked out across the Libyan desert, still unable to detect any lights on the horizon. There hadn’t been any for over two hours. The drive from Tripoli had been longer than expected, but then the roads were in abysmal shape. From the airport he knew they’d gone south toward Marzuq on what was one of the few high-quality roads in the country. Eventually they’d turned onto a semi-improved dirt road and made reasonably good time. The last hour, though, had found them traveling on a surface that was far better suited to camels than large sport utility vehicles. It was another glaring disconnect in a country that seemed to be trying to catch up with the rest of civilization in one giant leap. Roth mused at the progress represented by the big black Chevy Suburban. The Americans might be infidels, but exceptions were apparently made for reliable transportation. Twenty years ago it would have been a rattle-trap Russian Zhil limousine. And twenty before that, strictly dromedary.

The flight from Paris had been equally strange. Absent were the Italian suits and gold-trimmed briefcases. Those few legitimate businessmen who ventured here generally preferred the big European carriers. The passengers on Libya’s state airline had been young students, weary vacationers, and a significant contingent of swarthy characters who seemed to eye one another continuously. Each was no doubt engaged in his or her own brand of illicit behavior, and the specter of professional overlap had weighed heavily throughout coach; the black market, smuggling, and terrorism were a way of life in these parts.

Roth looked at his watch and wondered how much deeper into this godforsaken sandbox they’d have to go. He’d seen Libya in satellite photos, yet Roth never imagined he’d get to see it up close. He wondered idly what corner of the country they were in now, but the thought passed quickly. Knowing wouldn’t do him any good. The possibility of escape was nil. He was deep inside the Libyan Desert, in the hands of his swornenemies. And he was about to make them an incredible offer. If they accepted, Roth would be driven back to the airport with the promise of becoming a wealthy man. If they refused, he wouldn’t see the light of the next morning.

His hand squeezed the armrest on the door and he wondered for the thousandth time how he’d gotten himself into this mess. He felt like a pawn in a chess game, only he was neither black nor white — simply a lone, errant piece trying to exist between two battling armies. Still, there was a chance. Roth could survive, maybe even profit if it all worked out. All he had to do was talk. He’d always been good at that, and he already knew what to say. If they believed his offer was legitimate, and of course it was, the only question would be price.

Al-Quatan shifted forward in his seat and peered through the front windshield. The Colonel then leaned back and used his thumbs to tuck in some loose shirt around his waistline. They were getting close.

Nothing about the journey had really surprised Roth so far, nor had anything about Colonel Al-Quatan. He was a short, compact man, with the olive skin tone so common among the Bir al-Sab Bedouins of the Negev region. He sported a thick black mustache, and a bristle of close-cropped hair served as base for his maroon beret. The shoes were gleaming, the fatigues pressed and heavily starched. To complete the package, a leather holster was wrapped around his ample midsection, one hip displaying a large caliber ivory-handled revolver, the other a satellite phone. Roth knew the colonel’s commission was self-appointed, never having been issued by any particular country or army. But he was, without doubt, the organization’s military commander, and he had no hesitation in flaunting the title of rank, as had been the case earlier when introducing himself at the airport.

The truck rounded a hill and a small city of tents appeared. The area was well lit, the tents grouped tightly together. Roth saw laundry hanging from lines between tent poles. A large pile of trash had accumulated off to one side of the complex. They had obviously been here for weeks, if not months. It was a place where they felt safe. Roth wished he had some kind of mental navigation device. The coordinates of this place might be worth a lot to the right people.

The Suburban neared the perimeter of the compound and its headlights illuminated two men sitting next to the road on an overturned fifty-five gallon drum. One stood up lazily and Roth was surprised to see, of allthings, an Israeli-made Uzi strapped loosely across his chest. The other man didn’t even get up, his Russian weapon leaning on a rock, its butt in the sand. These would be the guards. The one who was standing smiled and waved at the familiar truck, which passed without stopping.

Al-Quatan gave a directive to the driver in Arabic. Roth correctly interpreted the command and a surge of adrenaline jolted through his body. They were going directly to Khalif’s tent. Roth was not fluent in Arabic, especially given the numerous dialects, but he had a basic knowledge of the language, a fact he would certainly keep to himself for the next day or so.

Al-Quatan looked away for a moment and Roth quickly wiped a mist of perspiration from his upper lip. It was going to happen fast now, the balance of his life to be determined in the next twenty minutes. He had to keep his wits.

The Suburban stopped sharply in front of a large, centrally located tent.

“Stay here,” Al-Quatan ordered Roth. The colonel got out of the car, disappeared into the billowing tent for less than a minute, then returned.

“Moustafa Khalif will see you now. Abu will take your bag.”

Roth followed Al-Quatan to the tent. At the entrance were two armed men, these more serious and professional than the ones on the perimeter. It only made sense that Khalif would have his best men nearby. They gave their Israeli guest a rough pat down and a hard stare, then ushered Roth inside as Al-Quatan followed.

In the tent, Roth found a random, asynchronous atmosphere. Plywood floors were partially covered by ornate carpets. A scattered assortment of chairs, couches, and tables were strewn about the place, none seeming to match. A Louis Quinze desk was shoved into one corner, and on top was a ten-gallon jerry can with the word petrol stenciled in big block letters. A large crystal chandelier hung from the center of the tent’s frame, half its light bulbs burned out.

The two security men took up post at the entrance, out of earshot, but with a clear line of sight toward the Israeli. Roth was sure their aim was excellent. Al-Quatan moved off to one side and stood silently. Only then did Roth notice the other person in the room. He rose from a plush sultan’s chair, a tall man with huge olive eyes, a salt-and-pepper beard, and weathered features. Roth recognized him instantly. The man’s arms outstretched in greeting and, dressed in the traditional Arab jellabah, his robe flowed outward, giving the appearance of a huge bird airing its wings.

“Mr. Roth, I am Moustafa Khalif. I am pleased that you have come.”

Roth nodded politely, noticing Khalif made no effort to amplify his greeting with any of the traditional physical add-ons — no Arabic embrace or Western handshake. He looked much like the photos Roth had seen so often in the newspapers back home, perhaps older, a bit grayer.

“I hope your journey was not a difficult one,” Khalif said. His English was measured and deliberate, almost without accent.

“Not difficult, just long,” Roth said.

“Good. I know we are not conveniently located, but you can understand our reasons.” Khalif waved a wing toward an open chair. “Please have a seat.”

Roth chose a sturdy dinner chair as a man in an ill-fitting white servant’s jacket presented a tray of tea. So far, so good.

“Traveling. There is something I am no longer able to do. When I was a child, my parents took me to Italy and Austria. The Sistine Chapel, Vienna, the Alps. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Khalif gave a wistful sigh and Roth tried to imagine the terrorist as a child. He couldn’t.

“Here, I am a prisoner, surrounded by a desert and a people that are not my own. Still, we are safe, and for the moment that is important. From this place we can pursue our freedom, and someday, if it should be the will of Allah, we will return home. Perhaps then I can travel once again.”

Roth wondered if Khalif really believed it. He sipped his tea with a level gaze, not sure where this was headed.

“Where are you from, Roth? What part of Palestine?”

The bait was obvious and Roth decided the Arab was testing him. “Haifa,” he said. “And it hasn’t been called Palestine for a long, long time.”

Khalif’s eyes narrowed, a hawk gliding above its prey, deciding when to strike. Roth tried to hold steady under the piercing stare. The isolation of his tactical situation suddenly seemed overwhelming. He was alone, unarmed, and surrounded by the enemy. He took another sip of tea, trying to gather his wits. Meandering wouldn’t be to his advantage, so he moved right to the point.

“Did you view the loading process in South Africa?”

Khalif paused before answering, obviously deciding if this was where he wanted the conversation to proceed. He relented. “Of course. We sent one of our best agents. He photographed the loading and we have studied the evidence.”

Roth knew, in fact, that Khalif had rushed his nephew, Fareed, down to South Africa. Hopelessly inept, but completely trustworthy, Fareed had been the only one to meet both requirements — the proper documents to travel on short notice, and a rudimentary knowledge of photography. Roth was also aware that Khalif’s technical range for photo surveillance and imagery interpretation was nothing beyond Fuji film and a magnifying glass.

Khalif continued, “The cargo was in canisters. How do we know what you say about them is true?”

“You saw my partner there. And the kidon. What else would Israel be taking out of South Africa with that kind of secrecy?”

“I would not venture a guess,” Khalif said dryly.

Roth reached under the lapel of his jacket. He sensed a brush of motion from the two security men by the door. He gave the guards a plaintive look as he slowly pulled out an envelope and handed it to Khalif.

Khalif found four photographs in the envelope. He laid them out on a table and gestured for Al-Quatan to join in. The two men studied the photos carefully for a few moments. Roth watched their expressions intently.

“How can we be sure?” Al-Quatan said in a harsh whisper.

“My associate inspected them before they were canistered,” Roth explained. “He also took these pictures for my government. It wasn’t easy to get copies.”

Khalif looked at the photos again, then asked, “Where are they now?”

“At the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.”

The two Arabs looked at one another in amazement.

“Imbecile!” Al-Quatan exploded. “You said you would—”

Khalif cut him off with a sharp wave.

“You must be patient,” Roth said.

“How?” Khalif wondered. “How will it be done?”

Roth told them how the weapons would be retrieved, his eyes darting back and forth between his customers. The explanation seemed to settle Al-Quatan and eventually drew a smile across Khalif’s thin lips. Roth could tell he liked the plan.

“And you also have the technical data?”

“Of course. That was part of our agreement. But there is one thing,” Roth added, his voice cracking just slightly. “It has become more expensive than I thought. I’ll need more money.”

Khalif raised an eyebrow, but it was Al-Quatan who spoke angrily. “We have already agreed on a fair price! You are in no position to negotiate!”

Roth looked at Khalif, pointedly ignoring the underling. “The cost of executing our plan is greater than I expected. And afterwards, it will be very difficult, very costly for my friend and I to disappear. You know how my country can be about tracking down its enemies.”

Khalif turned away. Clasping his hands behind his back, he moved slowly across the room. Roth felt his heart pulse. Sweat began to bead again.

When Khalif turned back, the wrath in his eyes and the hiss of his voice were venomous as he leveled a finger at Roth. “You are not an enemy to your country! An enemy fights with honor. You are a traitor! And you and your friend would betray me as quickly as you have betrayed your own people. I will pay the agreed upon amount. Half soon, then half when we have received the shipment and verified it to be authentic. What happens to you afterwards, I do not care. But trust in this — if either of you attempt to deceive us in any way, we will come for you. And we will give evidence to your own country that you have betrayed them.”

Al-Quatan laughed, “For once Palestine and the Zionist pigs would be united in a cause. That of finding and destroying two wretched little weasels.”

Khalif was apparently finished with his outburst and Roth stayed calm. A gradual smirk came across the Arab’s face and he clapped his hands twice.

From behind, Roth heard a familiar, sultry woman’s voice, “Mmm, Pytor. It’s been so long.”

Roth turned to see Avetta. She looked better than ever, her silken black hair framing classic features and flawless skin. The layers of her robe could not hide the full, ripe young body that swayed beneath. Sweeping by Roth, she looked just as she had the first day he’d seen her, almost a year ago, only now the expression was different. The chin a bit higher, the black oval eyes no longer innocent but knowing, and her full lips showed the hint of a smile. She moved beside Khalif, victorious.

“I believe you know one another,” Khalif prodded.

Roth frowned, briefly wondering what her real name might be. He was also curious as to why Khalif had seen the need for her presence. “You don’t have to prove your point,” he said.

“I think I do,” Khalif countered. “I think it is important that you know exactly where you stand.” Khalif produced his own small stack of photographs and handed them to Avetta. She walked over to Roth and held up a few for the Israeli to see. Grainy and undeniable, they’d been taken in a cheap hotel in Beirut, showing the two of them engaged in various acts of indiscretion. Roth looked right past the photographs as Avetta waved them tauntingly in front of him.

“I’ve seen them before.”

“Some of them,” Khalif said. “There are others. But this thing you do for us now, there is little evidence of it. Understand, traitor, we can give these to your government at any time, along with samples of the documents you passed on to us. You were very cooperative when your paramour asked for these things.”

“I was cooperative with a prostitute who was blackmailing me.”

Avetta dropped the photographs and slapped Roth hard across the face. The room was silent for a moment before Colonel Al-Quatan started to laugh. Avetta gave him a hard look that was mirrored by Khalif, and Al-Quatan’s humor evaporated.

“A prostitute acts for money,” Khalif spat, “but not my Seema. She had a far more honorable purpose, and she succeeded magnificently.”

“Your who?” Roth queried.

“Seema is my eldest daughter. Doesn’t it make the pictures even more meaningful? You, a sergeant in Aman, a married father of four, taken by the daughter of your country’s most bitter enemy.”

Roth was caught off guard, amazed that Khalif could use his own daughter in such a way. He’d never understand the things these people did in the name of religion. Holy War was enough of an oxymoron, but this was new territory.

“I understand my position,” Roth admitted. “As of today, my career in the Israeli army is over. I’m a deserter.” And an ex-husband, he thought, even though the marriage had been cold for years. “A successful outcome is more important to me than you. It’s my only chance.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

Seema was dismissed and Roth felt the worst was over when Khalif and Al-Quatan pursued the details of the financial transfer. Finally, they discussed how the delivery would take place. Roth’s idea bred hesitation at first, but Al-Quatan liked it, so Khalif consented. “It’s the safest way,” Roth said of the transfer. Then he tried to sound casual in reciting the precise words he’d been forced to practice a hundred times.

“Keep in mind, these are highly complex devices, not to mention valuable. I trust you’ve made plans as to how you’ll handle them once they’re yours?”

Al-Quatan answered. “We have made all the arrangements. Security and technical help will be the best.”

Roth nodded and Khalif raised his voice to summon the two guards. “Escort Sergeant Roth to his quarters. He will return to Tripoli in the morning.”

As he left, Khalif reminded him, “Nine days, Mr. Roth. Nine days.”

The makeshift control room was set up in the officers’ mess aboard Hanit. The room had been chosen for logistical reasons — adequate electrical supply, good ventilation, and right next door was the ship’s hardened Weapons and Maneuver Control Center. The ship’s officers were not consulted, most finding out at the evening meal that their lone retreat had been commandeered by the annoyingly chipper little man who had boarded two days earlier in Marseille. Paul Mordechai had transformed the dark, formally decorated dining area into an entropic scattering of equipment and wires.

The ship’s captain looked over Mordechai’s shoulder as he sat glued to a video monitor. The sprightly engineer had been in the same seat for over three hours, yet showed no lack of patience or enthusiasm. He wore a headset with a boom microphone and his face was illuminated by the machine’s flickering glow.

The ROV was a “fly out” model. Sent to the bottom on an umbilical, it then separated and took guidance signals out to two hundred meters. A 50-watt quartz halogen light was boresighted to track the digital camera, and images were transmitted to the docking rig, then relayed topside by way of the umbilical.

To the uninitiated, the pictures might have seemed relentlessly monotonous. The flat mud on the ocean floor had almost no contour, like the moon without craters. The highlights for the last hour had included a crumpled beer can that looked like it might have been there since World War II, and a pair of undulating worms who poked their heads out of the muck, miniature cobras swaying to the song of some unseen charmer.

“Shouldn’t we have found something by now?” the captain asked.

“Needle in a haystack, Captain.”

“But we’re still getting two good signals from those beacons. Strong signals.”

Mordechai manipulated a joystick and the view on the monitor began a shift to the right. “Just makes the haystack smaller, needles don’t get any bigger.”

The captain frowned.

“Our biggest problem is stability.” Mordechai pointed to the display. “Your ship is drifting. Not much, but enough to screw up our search matrix. We can only use the engines to adjust forward and aft. I could make a better system. Put a differential GPS on the drone, something to compare its exact position and drift relative to the ship. Then we’d install some side thrusters with digital control on Hanit and write up software to automate the corrections. The way it is now, with everything done manually and only one axis of movement, by the time we correct one way, the drone is drifting to the other. Ends up with divergent oscillations. Same thing can happen in aircraft flight control software.”

“How comforting,” the captain deadpanned, obviously lost.

Mordechai smiled and keyed his microphone, “Ten forward.”

In the adjoining control room a lieutenant engaged the screws to push a thousand tons of warship gently ahead, then reversed them momentarily to stop.

“Still seems to me we should have found something by now. Polaris Venture was 150 feet along the waterline. Even if she broke up, there ought to be some pretty big pieces down there.”

Mordechai had no reply, primarily because he was more and more bedeviled by the same question. They had locked onto both beacons, getting good signals every thirty minutes. By his own calculations, considering antennae errors and thermal deviations, there was a ninety percent chance that Polaris Venture was within a two-square-kilometer area on the ocean floor below. They had covered that entire search box once already and found nothing. The other ten percent was weighing greatly on Mordechai when he finally saw something.

“There!” he shouted.

A grainy, squarish image appeared on the monitor.

Mordechai yelled into his microphone, “Mark one!” He worked the joystick furiously, repeatedly pressing a button that took magnified pictures of the image almost two miles below. Rocking nervously in his chair, he now understood why Polaris Venture had been so hard to find. “Where’s the other one? Where’s the other?” he mumbled.

“I don’t know what that is you’ve found,” the captain said, “but it’s not part of a ship. At least not any part I recognize.”

Mordechai held his drone directly over the small box, then tilted upward so the camera and beam of light spread out level across the bottom. He then slowly rotated to the left. The small cone of illumination arced across a barren submarine landscape, a tiny lighthouse in one of the world’s darkest corners. After ninety degrees of rotation he stopped and zoomed in.

“There,” Mordechai said.

Another object, a twin to the first, came into view.

“Mark two, bearing three-three-zero, ten meters from mark one. Captain, have the radio operator stand by for a secure uplink. We’ve got a very important message to send.”

“That’s it? I thought we were looking for a ship.”

“We are,” said a dispirited Mordechai. “But we won’t find it here.”