Assassin's Dawn Page 11

  Ramzi said nothing, letting an uncomfortable silence build. He used the time to study Vandenburg. His suit looked expensive but fit rather poorly, sagging in some spots, too tight in others. He was at the age, roughly thirty, when so many men began letting themselves go. A thick gold watch hung loosely on his wrist, dangling like a bracelet. He wore wire-framed glasses and his posture was poor. There was a distinct sag in his shoulders, a crook in the neck. Without doubt, a man who’d never felt the heat of fire, the cold of steel.

  Around him were the usual props. On his desk were a blotter, a thick manila folder, and one impossibly dense law book, at least four inches thick, anchored the nearest corner. On the shelf behind the lawyer was a framed picture of Vandenburg shaking hands with the only person in Luxembourg Ramzi would recognize—the prime minister himself. He saw nothing here that wasn’t contrived, an attempt to convey strength that did quite the opposite.

  Probably to break the silence, the lawyer said, “Would you like some coffee or tea while we wait for your brother?”

  “Apparently you haven’t heard.”

  A questioning look in response.

  “My brother is dead.”

  Vandenburg’s face fell to shock. “What? Moussa is … I saw him only a few days ago. What happened?”

  “He was murdered, shot in the head in his hotel room.”

  The lawyer went ashen. “My God, that’s horrible! My deepest condolences for your loss. Do the police know who is responsible?”

  Ramzi thought the question ridiculous. “Let’s not play games, Mr. Vandenburg. You know who I am. You know what I do. My brother and I have many enemies. I discovered who is responsible, and that person has paid the price.”

  The lawyer actually put a finger in his starched collar and tugged it away from his throat. He looked at the file on his desk, and said, “Very well. In that case … how do you wish to proceed?”

  “I am going to take charge of the financial side of the organization. You will arrange whatever paperwork is necessary to put things in my hands.”

  “Of course.” Vandenburg pulled out a pen and began making notes on the cover of the file. He then seemed to hit a stop, and said, “It just occurred to me that your brother made out a will—it’s in his file. Monsieur Schneider includes this as a courtesy to many of his clients. If you would like one as well, I’d be happy to draw up—”

  Ramzi cut the man off with a withering look. “What I want is for you to explain to me every detail of my organization’s finances. I know where the money originates, but I must understand where it goes at every turn, who has access along the way. Once that is clear, you will draw up changes to make me the administrator. In the future, I will have sole control.”

  The lawyer sat marginally straighter, steeling himself. “All right. Yes, I understand, sir. In that case,” Vandenburg opened the file, “you and I have a great deal to discuss.”

  * * *

  The surveillance system captured every word. The camera was installed at the top of the picture frame, just above the prime minister’s smiling face, the microphone at the bottom. Both sensors were blended artfully into decorative swirls of the wood. The sound and sights they recorded were transmitted first to a receiver atop the highest bookshelf, where they were digitized and encrypted, and then sent via a rooftop antenna over a secure satellite feed. The transmission ended on a monitor in a Mossad operations center outside Tel Aviv.

  Anton Bloch watched raptly, taking in every word, astounded by what was unfolding before his eyes. Ramzi Tayeb, the terrorist he had been hunting for years, was about to spill his organization in its entirety.

  27

  For nearly thirty minutes, Ramzi listened as Vandenburg went over al-Qassam Front’s finances. Mostly he nodded, but occasionally the lawyer asked him to fill in details: the names of certain benefactors, who was on the receiving end of hawala payments, downstream methods for transitioning to cash.

  He had never realized how intricate it was to move large sums of money. The Front’s supporters were mostly wealthy Arabs from the peninsula: Saudis, Emiratis, Omanis. A few others scattered around Asia, pockets in Europe. All too late, he felt an appreciation for what his brother had built.

  When Vandenburg finally finished, he closed the file and looked at Ramzi hopefully. “There are a few things I must clarify.”

  “Such as?”

  “To begin, I still have only account numbers for your largest backer in Saudi Arabia. I realize he would like to remain anonymous, but E.U. regulators have been cracking down. The new rules require a name on certain types of transactions.”

  “There is no way around this?”

  “It is possible I can create a new company, even two or three. But even then, I would have to contact the individual to put the strategy in place. Barring that, will have trouble going forward on both his end and ours.”

  Ramzi hesitated.

  “Monsieur Schneider told me he discussed this with your brother—it is simply unavoidable in the new regulatory environment. Once I make the alternate arrangements, it will put us in the clear for some time. The authorities are quite predictable: they pass a law every few years, then move on to something brighter and shinier. In the meantime, people like you engage people like me to find workarounds and put them in place. Your brother said something to that effect when I saw him the other day.”

  This clicked in Ramzi’s mind. It was the kind of thing his brother would say. “Sheik Mohammed bin-Suleiman.”

  “Yes, very good.” The lawyer nodded appreciatively and scribbled the name on the manila file. “And your new patron in Oman?”

  Ramzi’s hackles suddenly rose. It struck him that he was not getting information, but giving it. Very vital information. And something else … the lawyer himself. All at once, Vandenburg seemed surer, less intimidated. He wasn’t slouching in his chair, but forceful and direct.

  “Oman?” the attorney prompted again, his pen poised.

  It occurred to Ramzi he was holding the pen in his left hand. Had he not used his right earlier? The lawyer’s countenance seemed to shift before his very eyes. Then all at once he sat upright in his plush chair. Vandenburg spun a slow half turn, reached for the picture frame behind him and tipped it flat on the table.

  * * *

  “What the hell is he doing?” Bloch asked, his eyes nailed to the blank monitor.

  The technician running the show knew perfectly well what had happened. “He killed the video feed. But we still have audio.”

  Bloch reached for a table-mounted microphone that was connected to the tactical comm net. “Intervene! Intervene!”

  * * *

  Within seconds Bloch’s orders arrived on two earbuds. The first was outside Vandenburg’s office, a man in a heavy overcoat. Yosy Meier had already closed in from across the street, and was now loitering in the shadows along the building’s eastern wall.

  He ran to the entrance, passed through the hallway, and burst into the office. The second recipient of Bloch’s message was already standing at the door of Vandenburg’s office. Ruth Gross, who had played the part of receptionist admirably, including learning how to say “Good afternoon” in Luxembourgish, looked alternately between Yosy and the closed inner door.

  He moved next to her and together they listened. All was going precisely as Slaton had briefed—including the message they’d just received from Bloch. Yosy looked at Ruth and put his index finger to his lips. She nodded in agreement. His hand went to the doorknob, and ever so deftly he gave it a partial turn—just enough to learn that it was locked. No surprise, but good to know all the same.

  Another nod between them.

  They held their ground.

  * * *

  As soon as Vandenburg turned back, Ramzi noticed it. The lawyer’s gray eyes had gone to a mist, like midwinter clouds. The feeling of imminent danger that seized him was one he never ignored.

  Ramzi leapt up from the chair and reached for his Glock.

  28
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  Ramzi’s fingertips had barely touched the Glock’s polymer handle when the first shot rang out. The second and third came in such quick succession that it reminded him of automatic fire. The first struck him in the left hip, followed by his right shoulder and forearm. He jolted sideways and collapsed back into the chair. Had he been an observer to the attack, he might have appreciated its covert execution. The shots had come from beneath the desk—a pedestal design that was open in the center—where the lawyer’s right hand had been out of sight. All three struck him in the space of one second.

  Electric pain slashed through his body, nerve endings shredded. Ramzi looked down and saw his Glock on the floor near his feet. He was helpless to reach it. Watching the gray-eyed man stand, it struck him how different he now appeared. He was strong and confident. Not a budding young lawyer, but another kind of specialist—one that Ramzi knew all too well.

  This was an assassin.

  The man raised his weapon smoothly above the desk, the sight so steady on Ramzi’s chest it seemed held by a wire. “Standby,” he called out, as if to his receptionist. He rounded the desk guardedly until he was standing directly in front of Ramzi. He kicked away the Glock, and Ramzi stared down a hot barrel. It was like staring at destiny itself.

  Yet the coup de grace did not come. The assassin’s eyes penetrated, reaching into Ramzi’s very soul.

  “Katya,” he said at a whisper. “Elise.”

  He had no idea what the man was trying to tell him. The pain in his shoulder, in his hip, was excruciating, overwhelming his other senses. “What?” he managed.

  “Those are the names of two of your victims. A bus attack in Netanya, three years ago.”

  As Ramzi tried to focus through the fog of pain, his thoughts took a dual track. When he’d fallen into the chair his body had contorted, leaving his left hand wedged beneath his hip—only inches from the knife. Realizing it was his last chance, he tried to think the move through. The man was standing over him, well within reach. Buy time, he told himself. Netanya? A bus? There had been so many strikes, so many martyrs. Then bits and pieces flooded to his head. A middling casualty count, twenty or thirty. And possibly a way out.

  “That wasn’t me,” he said with all the force he could muster. “It wasn’t my operation. Anand organized it, right before Mossad killed him.” He squirmed as if from pain, his hand inching farther back.

  The man was listening now.

  “That’s who you are, is it not?” Ramzi queried. “One of Mossad’s assassins?”

  The man shook his head. “I’m not here on their behalf today. I’m here for Katya and Elise. My wife and daughter.”

  Ramzi felt the blade’s composite handle, twisted his fingers into the grip. It was situated for a right-handed draw, but he would have to make it work. He looked squarely at the Israeli. “Whores, I’m sure.” The assassin’s non-shooting hand moved behind him. Ramzi expected him to lash out, a strike that would bring him closer and put him off balance.

  With all the strength he could muster, ignoring the pain, he pulled the knife and slashed in a great arc toward the assassin’s gun hand. The killer moved so quickly, Ramzi never saw what happened. He only saw the aftermath: the tip of his knife sunk deep into the massive law book that had been on the desk. Before he could move again, the assassin hacked down with the butt of his gun, separating his hand from the knife.

  Ramzi collapsed to the wood floor, ending up on his back. The movement sent new waves of pain searing through his body. He nearly passed out from the agony, but somehow kept a grip on consciousness. From that perspective, flat on his back and staring upward, he watched the assassin calmly twist the knife free of the massive book and drop it clattering to the desk. Ramzi’s mind fell uncharacteristically still and empty, a thoughtless haze taking control. It was a sensation he’d never experienced in combat. Perhaps it was the pain. Or more likely the situation … an acceptance of defeat.

  In those last flickering moments, he saw the Israeli standing over him. The gun was nowhere in sight, but had been replaced by something else. It plunged toward him with all the certainty of a guillotine …

  * * *

  Yosy and Ruth exchanged yet another glance. They’d been tracking every sound from inside the room, and up to this point all had gone as expected. Three shots, followed by Slaton’s “standby” order. A few muted words exchanged between the men. Yet the new sounds were perplexing. From behind the door came a series of heavy noises, like a bowling ball in a bag being repeatedly dropped. Six times? Eight?

  Slaton had been adamant: they were not to come inside until he gave the word. No matter what they heard. Not even if Anton Bloch himself ordered an intervention—which he had.

  After a brief interlude of silence, the lock on the door clicked. Moments later, Slaton’s voice. “All clear.”

  Yosy was the first through. He saw Slaton at the far side of the room, facing away and staring out the small window that overlooked the perimeter hedgerow. Then he saw the body on the floor between the desk and chair. It was Ramzi, although proving the point would be difficult. The wounds from three gunshots were apparent, yet his head looked like it had lost a battle with a wrecking ball. The face was unrecognizable, the skull bludgeoned to an odd shape.

  Yosy glanced at the desk and saw the murder weapon: bloody and creased, what had to be a 2,000-page tome of a legal book. The title was European Union Criminal Law and Procedure.

  Slaton was still staring out the window.

  “You okay?” Yosy asked.

  A long pause. Finally, Slaton turned, and said, “Yeah. Let’s finish this.”

  29

  For nearly a day, Mossad’s Learjet had sat parked and waiting. The fuel tanks were full, the pilots briefed and ready. In any other country a more obscure airport would have been preferred, but here there was no such option: the main international airport was the only airfield in Luxembourg with a paved runway.

  The jet was tucked away in a quiet corner of the airfield, clear of the passenger terminals, and a mile distant from Luxembourg’s exclusive “high security” zone—the special hub through which the ultrawealthy moved their diamonds and precious artwork. The corporate ramp was predictably discreet. During normal business hours a contingent of immigration officers sat watch over the building. At ten minutes after midnight, however, there wasn’t a uniform in sight. The jet with the arbitrary registration number 4X-PAM was loaded and ready: two pilots, five passengers, and a half dozen neatly sealed diplomatic containers.

  More telling was what was missing—not a shred of paperwork had been filed regarding the jet’s departure. The flight plan was uploaded remotely as it sped down the runway, and the pilots obtained their clearance shortly after getting airborne. A neutral observer might have viewed it as laxness on the part of the local authorities. Those on board recognized the skirting of rules for precisely what it was: the distant hand of Anton Bloch.

  The show was not quite finished. The final act would commence tomorrow when, on Slaton’s insistence, a second jet, this one equipped with medical equipment and a nurse, would arrive to repatriate Anna Altman. Aside from that, Operation Kingfisher was nearing its end. A few debriefings, an after-action report, and everyone could take some well-deserved time off.

  One loose end, however, still remained.

  * * *

  It was addressed two hours later.

  “You want us to do what?” the aircraft commander asked from the Learjet’s left seat.

  “Ignore your navigation,” Slaton replied, “but just for a little while. Once we’re done with what we discussed, you can recalibrate and point us toward home.”

  The man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut, who was actually a captain in the Israeli Air Force, shook his head. “Okay. I’ve had some crazy requests, but that’s a first.”

  “I promise it won’t show up in the mission report.”

  “I don’t suppose you can tell me what you’re going to—”

  “No,” Sl
aton said, cutting him off. “And trust me … you don’t want to know.”

  “All right. I’ll give you the chime when everything is ready—we’ve got some short-circuiting to do up here. When you hear it, run through the procedure I showed you and tell me when you’re done.”

  “Will do.” Slaton returned to the cabin of the Learjet, closing the cockpit door as he left. They were somewhere over the Eastern Mediterranean, past Greece but not yet abeam Cyprus. Below them were thousands of square miles of open sea, an ebony void in the silent early morning.

  Yosy was waiting at the front of the passenger cabin, near the aircraft’s small galley. Like Slaton, he stood hunched in a fuselage with only five feet of headroom.

  “Okay,” Slaton said. “It’s nearly time—let’s do this.”

  They moved aft and together dragged a large container forward until it was near the cockpit door. It was the size and shape of a steamer trunk, constructed of heavy-duty plastic, and weighed nearly two hundred pounds. The hinged lid had been secured with a heavy padlock, and all the edges were sealed with tamper-proof tape marked “diplomatic material.” That precaution, thankfully, had proved unnecessary.

  Slaton used a key to open the padlock, but he left the lid closed. He looked aft and saw the rest of the team—Ruth Gross, a tech named Saul who’d installed the camera, and the two burly case officers who had babysat Vandenburg in his house while Slaton took his place. All except Ruth were sleeping, sprawled out on two rows of airliner-type seats that had been installed for the mission. Ruth was watching intently, and Slaton flicked a finger in her direction. She looked mildly disappointed, but his orders had been clear. She leaned forward and pulled a curtain closed, obscuring any view of what he and Yosy were about to do. It gave the others a small measure of legal protection. Plausible deniability.