Angels Don't Die (Madeleine Toche Series Book 2) (12 page)

             
“Our best team is downstairs now, Director Hartmann.  The dead men are a PLO strike team.  The literature we found, weapons and communications equipment lead to no other conclusion. Perhaps this is the team that abducted the American NSA agent.  Do you think an American strike team made this mess in retaliation for the capture of their agent?”

             
“The Americans won’t take any action over one agent, there’s too much at stake.  The Soviets and Americans are like two giant boxers eyeing each other from their respective corners, neither will do anything overtly.  Besides, the
CIA
doesn’t leave a calling card,” Hartmann said holding out the card clearly printed with Madeleine’s message.

             
“The Soviets are helping the PLO,” Simmons said, examining the card.

             
“And the Americans will help us when need be. But we have been admonished by our ally, not to start anything.  But I think they’ll gladly help us finish whatever the Syrians and Egypt starts,” Hartmann said.

             
“Yes, Director,” Simmons said, nodding his head in agreement.

             
“Back to the task at hand, first I want a ballistics report on the bullets the shooter used.”

             
“Don’t you mean the shooters, Sir?  This couldn’t have been done by one person acting alone.”

             
Hartmann gave him an indulgent smile. “Joshua, you are a good agent, but you still have much to learn about the world,” he said, gesturing with his hand at Al Massri’s body and bloody mark on the wall.  “I believe you’ll find that all of the bullets were fired from the same gun.  This fool was tortured before the assassin ‘released’ him with the knife thrust to the eye.  Yes, this is the work of a lone assassin.  The body downstairs with the slit throat and punctured ear canal was dispatched to insure silence as the killer carried out the mission. Now leave an old man a minute to himself,” Hartmann said with a reassuring pat on Simmons’ shoulder, as he turned his attention back to the symbol on the wall.

             
Several miles away from the PLO safe house, Madeleine and the others discussed their next move.

             
“John, Tracy might be at the next location.  We should move right away before they get a chance to move him,” Madeleine said.

             
“Did you find anything out about Tracy?”  John said eagerly reaching out to take Karen’s hand.

             
“I have a name and address of the person to whom Tracy was delivered.  Maybe he’s being held there, but I doubt it.  A PLO thug named Al Lubnani has a compound near Ashdod, on the southern coastal plain about 60 miles from here.  Al Lubnani was the commander of the cell that I took out.  He may be trusted enough by his superiors to look after a package as valuable as Tracy, but I’m not convinced.  I need to get inside his home and gather some more information before we will know for sure.  I think it is time I visited the Mossad. I can’t wait any longer. If Hartmann is still alive, he’ll help once the situation is explained to him.  If he is alive, then he knows what happened last night.  He probably went to the scene himself.  He may not know that I was the PLO’s ‘visitor’ but he will consider it.  I haven’t spoken to him since the war, but he’ll recognize the signs.  Besides, I left a calling card for the PLO.  I don’t doubt that the Mossad report will be leaked to the PLO, once the Russians get their hands on it.  The Mossad might even purposely leak the report in an effort to frighten and confuse the enemy.”

             
“What’s your plan when we get to Ashdod?” Karen said.

             
“It’s fairly simple.  John creates a diversion with that Russian machinegun and I sneak into Al Lubnani’s compound and look for Tracy.  You and Jack will wait outside with the vehicles and be ready to drive like hell,” Madeleine said.

             
“What happens if we fail?” Karen asked.

             
“That’s one reason we’re not all traveling together.  If something happens, whoever gets away runs to the American Embassy, and makes contact with the state department.  If our mission fails, then all there is left to do is hope someone will finally step in and help Tracy,” Madeleine said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-
ONE

             
Tracy paced in his small cell trying to come up with an escape plan.  The daily routine never vari
ed. His meals were placed
through a slot in his cell door, but there was little interaction with any of his captors.  When he asked his guards for reading material, they provided some Muslim propaganda literature and a Quran in English.  Later he asked for a Bible, and to his surprise, one was provided.  At least my religious education is being seen to, he thought at the time.  He knew the quandary the US government was in regarding his rescue, but he was sure that his father had either found out or been told that he was being held.  He knew his father wouldn’t sit on the sidelines.  He would come.  Colonel Trunce still has lots of resources, Tracy reminded himself.  I just have to be patient and try to escape if I get an opportunity. 

             
Several floors above Tracy’s cell, the PLO’s second in command, Abdul Haddad, thumbed through a copy of the Mossad’s file concerning the complete destruction of one of his strike teams.  A second man calmly smoked a cigarette and watched as Haddad reviewed the file.

             
“Your Russian cigarettes stink,” Haddad offered.

             
Laughing, KGB agent Gregory Kozlov said, “So then why do so many American
CIA
agents switch to Russian brands once they’ve tried them?”

             
“Because they have to spend so much time in your country, they’re trying to kill themselves quicker,” Haddad countered, closing the file.

             
“What do you think of the report?  Seems there’s a new player in the game,” Kozlov said with some levity.  The KGB didn’t care one way or the other about the PLO’s dead operatives.  He was only concerned with the Soviet Union’s interests in the region.  The PLO was a fairly amateur organization by his estimate, but with Russian and KGB training, perhaps they could be molded into an asset. “The report indicates it was the work of a lone gunman, torturing that pig Al Massri before killing him,” Kozlov said, dropping his cigarette onto the floor and grinding it out under his shoe.  He continued, “But what do you think about the message?”

             
“You mean the one that reads, release the American agent?”

             
“No, the symbol on the wall painted in blood.  I believe it means the Angel of Death.”

             
“It’s just some arrogant assassin’s calling card,” Haddad said.

             
“You had better hope so,” Kozlov said taking another cigarette out of his case, making a production of lighting it, savoring the Arab’s discomfort.

             
“What do you mean?” Haddad said with some irritation.  He didn’t like the hardnosed KGB agent.

             
“As a young officer, I was in the intelligence service during the war.  We kept track of everything the enemy was doing, as well as our allies.  Everyone knew that when the tide of the war turned, the allies would be left to divide Germany and Eastern Europe among themselves.  I’ve been keeping an eye on the Americans ever since.  Thirty years is long enough.  I see a desk in my future,” Kozlov said tapping the ash of his cigarette onto the floor next to his chair.

             
“Yes, yes, I know all of that.  What do you know that you haven’t told me?”

             
“If that mark was made by whom I suspect it was, a myth has come back to haunt you.  The Gestapo feared her, and the memory of the Gestapo makes t
he most fearsome PLO operatives
look like choir boys.”

             
“Who was this man, this mythical assassin?”

             
“It was a woman, Madeleine Toche, known to the French Resistance, the SS and the Gestapo as
l’ange de la mort
, the Angel of Death.  She killed at least a thousand Germans, and was never caught.  I met her once on a mission. Thinking of her now chills my heart,” Kozlov said.

             
“The war was over long ago.  I’m sure she’s dead or living a quiet life in seclusion.”

             
“Perhaps, but take my advice.  Turn the agent over to me for transport back to Russia.  Perhaps through the appropriate diplomatic channels he can be exchanged for one of our agents.  We do it all the time,” Kozlov said crushing out his cigarette in an ashtray that Haddad handed him.

             
“My superiors, not to mention the Egyptian and Syrian governments, are not going to send a valuable piece of leverage out of our control when war is so close,” Haddad said.

             
“We’ll wait, then,” Kozlov said, getting up from his seat. “Either the Israelis, Syria or Egypt is going to blink soon, and the war will begin without warning.” 

             
“I’m not in control of those decisions,” Haddad added.  “I am only interested in the liberation of Palestine from the Jews who stole it.”

             
“Then why aren’t you in the street fighting, instead of enjoying the hospitality of your Syrian neighbors, safely inside their country?”  Kozlov said with a mocking smile.

             
“What about you?  Why aren’t you fighting for the socialist cause in one of your country’s various conflicts?” Haddad countered.

             
“I fought my war,” Kozlov said, walking away.  “Now you fight yours.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

             
Ariel walked into Hartmann’s private study and found him behind his desk going over a map of the region showing the Israeli army’s troop deployment and lines of defense.  When he noticed her presence, Hartmann looked up and greeted her with a brief smile.

             
“Sir, your cabinet meeting is in an hour, we should get the cars ready and get you on your way,” Ariel said.

             
“Regardless of who did this, we must be extra vigilant, Ariel.  The PLO might be clumsy, but they are rabid.  They’ll strike back.”

             
“We’ll be on our guard.  May I ask you if your suspicions concerning the attack on the PLO are confirmed?” Ariel said.

             
“One shooter, small caliber weapon, silenced no doubt.  Agents canvassed the neighborhood; nobody heard or saw a thing.  The front door was still locked, double bolted from the inside.  The killer gained access through the upstairs window and fled by means of the roof,” Hartmann said.

             
‘How do you know, sir?”

             
“Because that’s what I would have done.”

             
“Yes sir,” Ariel said, lacking any other response. 

             
Hartman
n shook his head and grimaced
as he closed the report.

             
“What is troubling you, director?  Can I help in any way?” Ariel asked.

             
Hartmann looked up at her, “It might just be the musing of an old man, but I think we have just acquired a very dangerous ally.  A woman I trained in the war for the British
SOE
.  Your instructors may have referred to her in your ‘espionage’ history lessons as
l’ange de la mort
.”

             
“I thought they were exaggerating or perpetuating a myth to get our attention,” Ariel said.

             
“She is no myth.  I’m sure I would know if she was dead.  I only know of one mission she undertook after the war, when a Nazi General was killed in Argentina.  He had been involved in the Massacre of French civilians at Oradour Sur Glane.  It was an incident our friend took very personally.  Her cousin and four year old niece were burned alive in a church by the SS,” Hartmann said.

             
“How horrible,” Ariel said. “Why would she be here?”

             
“I can only surmise that if it is her, she is here at the request of an old comrade.  Only that would bring her out of retirement.”

             
“We know the NSA agent’s father is a recently retired Colonel in the American paratroops,” Ariel said.

             
“I’m probably wrong, and hope I am.  I would love her assistance, but she has earned her peace.”  With that Hartmann rose and followed Ariel out of the room towards the elevator that led to the basement and his transportation to the cabinet meeting.