Angels Don't Die (Madeleine Toche Series Book 2) (17 page)

             
“Is this all you have?”  Kozlov asked, his voice giving no hint of what was on his mind.

             
“The other cameras failed to pick up anything from the compound.  Whoever this is, they kept to the shadows outside,” Al Lubnani answered, growing impatient as his Russian advisor took his time coming to any conclusion.

             
“I assume you relied on the exterior guards and the troops in the barracks, instead of video surveillance?”
             
The Russian continued.  “What did the survivors report?”  He emphasized the word survivors, clearly mocking the terrorist.

             
“All they say is that a small figure in black released the Israeli officer, exited the basement with a grenade or small bomb, and got away.  One of our vehicles was destroyed by a rocket launcher and the other by automatic weapons fire.  There must have been a second vehicle perhaps driven by the machinegunner from the ridge.  Whoever struck us was highly trained.  Do you think it was Mossad sent to help him escape?” Al Lubnani said.

             
“That would have been a much more tactical affair.  You lost the majority of your men, equipment, vehicles and most of your compound, I might add.  This was a message. It’s obvious they were looking for the American agent,” Kozlov said.

             
“Are you still clinging to that absurd idea that the attacker is the ‘Angel of Death’ legend?”

             
“I’m almost certain.  Only a person of her caliber could have done that much destruction in a matter of minutes.  I’m telling you, we need to move the American agent to my country’s control.”

             
“You can speak to the Syrians.  That’s where he’s been moved,” Al Lubnani said.

             
“You should be more forthcoming with information before you made a decision to act, Al Lubnani.  The Syrians seem to want our assistance, our weapons, our influence, but share even less with their benefactors than your organization.”

             
“We’re the ones who will be on the other end of Israeli guns when this thing starts.  I don’t make those decisions.  I am following instructions.  Once Israel is out of Palestine, I don’t care what you and the Syrians do,” Al Lubnani said rising to his feet, indignant.  He hated any outside influence controlling the actions of his countrymen.  At least the Syrians were Arabs and commiserated with the plight of the Palestinians. All the Russians wanted was control over the oil the Americans relied so heavily upon.

             
“That may be,” the Russian said, stubbing out his cigarette in an expensive ornamental ashtray. “But remember, the Americans will probably send in troops, weapons and supplies.  You will need our help. They have hundreds of thousands of experienced troops, well trained, nearby and ready to deploy.”

             
“They’ll lose that war,” Al Lubnani said.

             
“The Americans have known for a long time that they can’t win the war in Vietnam.  That fact makes this area even more tactically important to them.  While you Arabs have one goal in mind, we have many,” the Russian said, standing up, and shaking his head at the glow still coming from the screen.

             
“Let’s say that I believe this figure is your assassin. She would have to be around fifty years old.  Surely there are others that can be dispatched to neutralize her, one of her own to hunt her down and kill her when her attention is diverted,” Al Lubnani said.

             
“I’ll say this once.  If you send an assassin after Madeleine Toche and you miss, your life won’t be worth a whisper in the wind.  You and your hired assassin, their handlers and the agents responsible, will all die.  It may take years, but she will get you,” the Russian said over his shoulder as he walked out to the waiting Mercedes, where his driver was waiting.

  Al Lubnani angrily waved the Russian away.  The loss of his men still hurt. The added humiliation was that all signs pointed to the fact that the destruction of his palace and his strike team was accomplished by a middle aged woman.  He had no choice but to see her die.  If it became common knowledge, his Muslim brothers would find the fact that a woman had destroyed his compound enormously humiliating.  There needed to be a fitting response, but there was little time.  He needed some assistance.  It would take an assassin of skill and experience to answer the challenge this infidel bitch had thrown down.  Even though his religion demanded the subservience of women, he knew a jackal when he saw one.  He would call his true masters, those that were protecting and directing the activities of the PLO.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

             
In the heart of Syria, several older men sat on cushions silently smoking their hookahs waiting for their leader to speak.   Several photographs had been passed around showing the destruction of the Al Lubnani compound.  There was no sound aside from the gurgle of the water pipes.  Their traditions and strict Islamic code forbade any discussion until they had been addressed by their leader.  He was an Alawi Shaykh, a holy man, revered among the Syrian Alawite Shia Muslims.  As leader of Syria’s Alawi, his support was crucial to the Syrian government.  His word was final.  He signaled that he was about to speak by setting aside his mouthpiece and making eye contact with the lesser clerics in the room.  The women, who had been attending to the needs of the men, quickly finished their tasks and left the room. Once they were gone, the Alawi Shaykh, spoke.

             
“Our objective is to bring Israel to her knees, and that must not be compromised in any way by outside influences.  This assassin, as our Russian allies refer to her, could well interfere in a significant way.  We believe she is the same person who took out our strike team by herself. She appeared out of nowhere when they tried to kill Hartmann, that Mossad viper.  Our advantage when the war comes, in the next few days, will be that many Israelis do not believe that we will attack.  They are complacent, thinking us cowed after the disaster of the Six Day War. If any of you have suggestions for eliminating this threat, please enlighten us,” he said looking directly at his second in command, seated to his immediate left.

             
“Thank you, teacher,” the man said, using an address of great respect.  “I do not believe that the activities of this Angel of Death are sanctioned by the United States or Israel.  Hartmann’s hands are tied by Meir and the Knesset.  Our sources tell us the Americans will not provide aid until Israel is attacked.  Luckily for us, the Russians haven’t operated that way.  We will be much better provisioned and ready to attack.  Much depends on the swiftness of our attack as well as support from our Egyptian allies. We believe the most effective way to stop her will be to counter her with an assassin of our own. 

I have taken the liberty of creating a short list of assassins that are all equal to the task.  There are two that I am particularly interested in.  I would like to counter attack with another female.  There is one who works for the Yakuza in Tokyo. She is contacted through intermediaries and commands a high price, one hundred thousand US dollars.  The second, who largely operates throughout Europe and the US, is contacted through the IRA, with whom she has a loose affiliation but no reported loyalty.  The others are men, including Carlos the Jackal, of whom you are all aware.”

             
“My venerated brother,” another cleric spoke up.  “I also believe we should hire somebody from outside our country.  Why should we give the Angel of Death the respect of sending one of our own to neutralize her?  We should contact the others on the list to give them the opportunity.”

             
“I agree,” their leader said, picking up the stem to his hookah, pulling strongly to reignite the ember glowing in the bowl.  “The farther we can distance ourselves from this action, the better.   Once she has been removed, we’ll never hear about her again.  My brothers, I leave it to you to carry out this task.  You may send emissaries to contact these assassins and pay them out of Al Lubnani’s operations account.  He will carry the indignity of both previous attacks for some time.  I want there to be no doubt in his mind that we consider this to be his problem, but that we will arrange to solve it for him.  Now on to more pleasant matters,” he exclaimed, ringing a small bell signaling the return of the servant women and his lunch.

             
“Pass me that clean rag,” John said, gesturing to Jack.  Safely back in Jerusalem, the four were cleaning the weapons used in the raid.

             
“Madeleine, you’re confident that the intelligence you’ve gathered concerning the Syrians is accurate?” Jack asked.

             
“Yes.  The troops that were present at the compound were Syrian.  I found empty cigarette packages with Syrian markings and the papers I found in the trash can.  Benjamin confirmed it.”

             
“Will he report to his superiors in the military?”  Karen asked, as she carefully oiled her shotgun, clearing it of sand and debris.

             
“I sent him to Hartmann first,” Madeleine said. “We don’t want any more eyes on us than are necessary.  I think Tracy is being kept alive, at least until the war breaks out.  That means we have an even shorter period of time to enter Syria and retrieve him.”

             
“Where will we start to look?” John asked.

             
“Once again we will have to rely on what MI6 knows, as well as what the Mossad can tell us.  I believe we can assume that he will be held on or near a regular army base, although there is no guarantee of that,” Madeleine said.

             
“If I remember correctly, MI6 has some assets on the ground in Syria, deeply under cover, mostly eyes and ears people.  Someone must have seen something,” Jack added.

             
“If he’s being held at a military base, won’t the security be overwhelming?” Karen asked.

             
“Not when there is a war on.  Armies rely on the fact that they are actively engaged with the enemy and an attack on a military base inside their country would be less likely. Tracy may well be in a standard stockade, just as any prisoner of war would be.  Tracy is a bargaining chip.  If the Syrians lose, they can use him to better their position, if they win, then they can tell the world that their actions were justified in capturing an American spy,” John answered.

             
“That is the best case scenario,” Madeleine said.

             
“What’s the worst case scenario?” Karen asked.

             
“They shoot him and deposit his body among others killed in battle, both tying up the loose end and creating a potentially embarrassing situation for the US government,” Madeleine answered.

             
“Then we have to act quickly,” Karen said.

             
“We will,” Madeleine said to comfort Karen’s worst fears.  “But first we need rest. In the morning I’ll go and report to Hartmann and see what information I can obtain.”

             
“Madeleine, do you think there will be any retaliation for our handiwork tonight?”  Jack asked.

             
“Yes.  I think we should each take turns on guard duty.  I doubt our location has been discovered, but I’m sure that compound had some security cameras. That and my message should tell them that I am active again,” Madeleine said.

             
“I’ll take first watch,” John said, making his way over to the kitchen and the coffee pot.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

             
In the waning hours of the late afternoon, Amaya Miki sat patiently while the head of one of the oldest Yakuza crime families in Japan handed her a black and white photo of Madeleine Toche.  The two sat comfortably on cushions, next to a low table.  A charcoal brazier sat between them, heating a pot of tea.  Amaya was dressed in a white embroidered robe. Her male companion wore a dark grey Kimono, with a wide sash at the waist, in the samurai tradition.  The two shared a comfortable silence as the man poured tea into two small ceramic cups.  A large window at the end of the room, afforded them an expansive view.  They could see Tokyo harbor far below the tea house that sat on a hill overlooking the activity below.  From their vantage point, they could keep an eye on their extensive interests in shipping, fishing and the lucrative smuggling network that ran well below the radar of the harbor police.  The glowing embers of the charcoal fire were attended by another young woman, who appeared and disappeared with practiced efficiency, anticipating any request her guests might have.

   Tomi Kishimoto was well into his seventies, and his control over his criminal organization was absolute.  His men followed him with a reverence usually reserved for cult leaders.  His reverence for all things Japanese was as legendary as his brutality.  He was Yakuza before he went off to war to fight the Americans. He harbored great resentment towards the west and the westernization of his country after the war.  His blocky body was covered in the traditional tattoos of his organization. The tip of his right pinkie finger was missing, symbolizing his membership in the Yakuza.  As a young man, he had cut off the tip of his finger as an act of fealty to his leader, or Oyabun.  Kishimoto had risen through the ranks until he himself was Oyabun, leader of one of the most powerful of the Japanese crime syndicates.