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They had been at it for over four hours when Korsolov pulled Pankin away. They went down the hallway eerily lit by overhead fluorescents, buzzing like angry flies. Korsolov bought them coffee out of one of the vending machines and they drank, leaning against a wall on which was a poster exhorting those within range to take their next vacation in the paradise of Crimea. A bright yellow sun shone down on azure water and a buff-colored beach. A gaily striped umbrella completed the fantasy.
“Captain,” Korsolov said, “do you know what a field promotion is?”
“Of course, Colonel.”
Korsolov smirked, dug in his pocket, extracting a pair of shiny objects which he pinned on the epaulets of Pankin’s tunic, after first removing his captain’s insignia. He dropped them into Pankin’s cupped palm. “Keep these as a souvenir. Give ’em to your firstborn son, so he’ll join the FSB like his father.”
“Sir?”
“In recognition of your help in the matter of identifying the perpetrator of General Boris Illyich Karpov’s heinous murder, and to celebrate my imminent promotion to general, you have been promoted to colonel. In addition, you are now my adjutant. You’ll report to me and to no one else.”
“Sir, I don’t know what to say.”
Before Korsolov could respond, one of his men hurried up. “Sir, I think we have something. Only…”
“Only what?”
“Well…” His man pulled out a digital copy of a photo taken off one of the CCTV cameras in Sheremetyevo. The time stamp was two days ago at 20:08 hours. A female face, half hidden by the head of a passing man, was circled in red grease pencil.
“Who am I looking at?” Korsolov said.
“Maybe no one,” his man said. “Maybe a ghost.”
Korsolov handed the photo to Pankin. “This face mean anything to you, Colonel?”
Pankin, who during the long night had made it his business to refamiliarize himself with all Mossad personnel in the FSB records directorate, said, “It does. But like this man, I’m a bit puzzled.”
Korsolov was rapidly losing patience. “And why is that?”
“Well, hard as it may be to believe, this member of Kidon was knifed to death some three years ago in Mexico City.”
“Do we have proof of that, Colonel? I mean incontrovertible proof.”
“When it comes to Mossad we are rarely able to dig up incontrovertible proof.”
Korsolov’s forefinger stabbed out, tapping the red bull’s-eye drawn on the surveillance photo. “And yet here is incontrovertible proof that she is still alive.” He eyed Pankin, the messenger all but forgotten. “General Karpov’s exterminator. What’s her name?”
“She’s had many over the years, legend on top of legend. By all accounts, she was—excuse me, is—Kidon’s best agent.” Pankin cleared his throat. “We know her only by her code name: Rebeka.”
PART TWO
Life? It’s simple: manipulation through ideological doctrine.
—Ivan Borz
21
Sara Yadin, known by her code name Rebeka, returned to Israel as Jenny Parker, an Australian national, a historical researcher at the University at Perth, the legend impeccably fabricated by Mossad’s Scrivener Directorate.
Jerusalem was under war skies, a seemingly endless occurrence these days. The bleak grayness of Moscow was replaced by a riot of deep, life-affirming earth tones, the spikes and thorns of Russian were replaced by a molten torrent of Hebrew and Arabic, warming her from the inside out. She walked out into the heat, colliding with the scalding sunlight on her face and bare arms, which she nevertheless welcomed as an old and trusted friend.
She took a taxi from the airport, had it drop her off in front of an anonymous, blank-faced office building that housed law firms, import-exporters, and the like. She took an elevator up to the third floor, where a discreet sign announced GOLD JEWELRY. Pushing through the door, she went straight to the glass-topped counter, bought a Star of David identical to the one she had lost and a thin gold chain that was close enough. She paid in cash, fixed the clasp at the nape of her neck, and walked out, feeling the familiar weight of the star against her chest, but plagued by a vague unease nevertheless.
She walked a mile in a circuitous route to make certain she wasn’t being followed, then entered the executive offices of Mossad and surrendered herself to the usual scrutiny by the security team whose members she knew by their given names.
Above her head was the motto, “Where there is no guidance, a nation falls, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety,” Proverbs 11:14, inscribed in Hebrew into the midnight-blue marble.
The Caesarea division was on the eighth floor of the nine-story building. Another security search was mandatory before she was allowed entry. The Kidon offices were in the rear, a series of windowless rooms, protected from electronic surveillance, monitored around the clock in three shifts of two men and two women each.
She was met by Mossad’s director, who welcomed her back with a brief nod and a curt “Well done.” He led her along the corridor and through a door that could be opened only by highly restricted iris ID. Beyond was a narrow spiral of steel treads, which they ascended. It gave out onto a tiny landing that was between floors eight and nine. Through another locked door was a suite of rooms the polar opposite of the Kidon offices. In fact, the space, with its modern leather furniture, plush beige carpet, and tasteful but innocuous prints on the walls, looked more like an expensive suite in a five-star hotel.
The Director turned and, as soon as the door to the suite closed behind Sara, grabbed her in a bear hug and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Well done.” His voice was warm and affectionate. “Well done, Sara!”
“Thank you, Father.”
Eli Yadin released her, and he and his daughter took a step back to assess one another. “Your mission went well,” he said.
“It was flawless,” she replied.
A shadow crossed his face. “Not entirely.”
“What do you mean? My target is dead.”
“Of course he is. There’s no doubt of that. None whatsoever. Had you not terminated Yasha he would have given Belov—and, eventually, Svetlana Novachenko—”
“Svetlana Karpova.”
Eli Yadin regarded his daughter for a moment. “The late General Karpov was not a friend of Israel’s. Sara.”
“He helped Bourne—and, indirectly, me—in Damascus. Have you forgotten?”
“I forget nothing, daughter. But our mission had been, through Belov, to secretly help Ukraine break away from Russian influence. Now, because of Yasha’s treachery, that plan is as dead as he is.”
“I will not debate Boris with you,” she said tightly. “You implied a problem.”
Nodding his shaggy head, he guided her to one of the sofas, poured coffee from a pot on a nearby sideboard, brought the cups over and sat down beside her. “You were made at Sheremetyevo airport.” He handed her the coffee, which she accepted but did not drink.
Unconsciously, she fingered the gold star, as if to make sure it was still there. “Who?”
There was a discreet knock on the door, the Director, frowning, said, “Come,” and Dov Liron, head of the Caesarea unit, Sara’s boss, came in. She rose, shook his hand, then kissed him on both cheeks.
He hoisted a manila folder. “You asked for this as soon as—”
Eli lifted a hand to still him. “Just leave it on the desk, Dov. Thank you.”
Liron complied and left without a backward glance. The Director discouraged curiosity inside Mossad headquarters.
“Well, that’s the odd part,” Eli said, returning to her question. “At first, it seemed as if the interest came from our Chinese enemies. They like to keep tabs on us as best they can.” He shrugged. “Though we always manage to be at least one step ahead of them.”
He sipped his coffee. “Drink, drink, darling. The breach isn’t anything we can’t deal with.”
Sara eyed him, took a sip, but didn’t taste it.
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“No, it wasn’t the Chinese who spotted you; it was an old enemy of ours that has tapped the Chinese faucet. They must have found some piece of evidence of our presence.”
He leaned over, took up three cubes of sugar. “Here. I forgot.” He dropped them in her coffee, watched her sip again with no little pleasure. “No, it was the Russians who made you.” He sat forward, elbows on knees. “Bottom line, I want you away from here. We have to assume the FSB has traced your flight back here.”
“Away from Jerusalem? Where?”
Her father shrugged. “I don’t know. The Maldives, maybe. You could use some rest and relaxation. The scuba diving is fantastic, and I know you’ve been dying to see the reefs. Now’s your time.”
Before she could reply, his mobile buzzed and he lifted a finger as he answered it, listening for some minutes, then saying, “All right.” He disconnected, and rose. “Excuse me a moment, darling. I have a small fire to put out. I won’t be a moment.”
When she was alone, Sara stared into her coffee. She didn’t want to go to the Maldives, even if it was to scuba dive. She did not want to go on vacation; she did not need rest and relaxation. After what happened, the suggestion of a vacation smacked of failure. Her mission in Moscow had been difficult—not technically, though it had involved more than one target, which was unusual enough without the other circumstances involved. It had somehow taken a toll on her emotionally. This was so odd it caused her no small degree of concern. One of the basic elements of Kidon training was to kill quickly, silently, efficiently, and dispassionately. Otherwise, your survival—your basic humanity—was at risk. Involuntarily she shivered, as if the ice that had crept into her bones in Moscow had not yet left her. It was like waking from a dream that, unaccountably, seemed just as real with your eyes open.
Unsettled, she rose, wandered around the suite, until she found herself at her father’s desk. There, as if spotlighted, was the manila folder Dov had left, so urgent he had instructions to come at once to the Director’s inner sanctum.
Sara reached out, touched it with the tip of her forefinger. Then she turned it around to face her, flipped it open. She had just enough time to see the words: “Mission Mounted,” “Ivan Borz,” and “Cairo” before she heard the scrape of the door. Hastily, she flipped the file shut, moved away from the desk. When her father entered, she was watching the city through one of the castle-like slits between the vertical blinds hanging in front of the layers of bulletproof glass.
“So,” Eli said, “I’ve made arrangements for your flight to the Maldives.”
“That’s what was so important?” Sara did not turn around.
“Of course not. But while I was—”
“I’m not going to the Maldives,” Sara said.
“Oh? All right. Where do you want to go?”
She turned around to look him in the eye when she said, “Cairo.”
“Cairo? You’re joking, yes?”
“No, Abba.” She folded her arms across her breasts. “I’m not.”
Eli took a step toward her. “But, Sara, you can’t be serious.” He stopped abruptly, turned toward his desk, where the folder lay slightly askew. He turned back to her. “Sara, no. The operation has already begun.”
“Without me.”
The Director snorted. “Of course without you.” He spread his hands. “You were on assignment.”
“And now that assignment is over.”
“And you need rest.”
“What I need, Abba, is to leave Jerusalem. You said it yourself.”
“Don’t use my words against me, daughter!”
Sara’s heart beat faster. Her father only called her “daughter” when he was very angry with her. Still, it was not in her nature to back down. “Just the facts, Abba. Just the facts.”
The edge of his hand cut through the air like a knife. “You’re not going anywhere near Cairo, and that’s final.”
Her eyes flared. “You know you can’t stop me.”
“Sara, Sara, Sara.” Eli shook his head. “I only have your best interests in mind. Your body may be healed from your near-death experience in Mexico City, but your mind—”
“My mind is as clear as a bell. I can see for miles.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Where is this defiance coming from?”
“You know very well,” she said.
Eli closed his eyes for a moment. “Ivan Borz.”
“You cannot deny me this, Abba.” She placed a hand atop his on her shoulder. It was a very Roman gesture, one legionnaire to another. “This of all things on earth and in hell.”
Enrobed in silence, father and daughter bowed their heads and prayed together.
—
A pack of wolves, that’s what I’ve raised, Ivan Borz thought. With the grace and all-knowing guidance of Allah. The Wahhabis are the perfect foils. They were born to be raised as wolves, all they needed was a voice coming to them from out of the wilderness. And this they found. Allah brought them to me, first in ones and twos and then, as word spread, in handfuls, in entire villages, in an ever-widening gyre.
Borz sat cross-legged, as was his wont, on an ancient Egyptian rug, faded and frayed, of oxblood camelhair and Chinese silk, which was set, per his instructions, in the precise center of the mosque’s central prayer room. Around him were arrayed his acolytes, his fearless warriors, his cannon fodder, male and female alike, some as young as seven or eight, in concentric circles. Like the planets of the solar system, he thought, around the sun whose heat will warm them forever, even when they are among the angels. Which, for some of them, would be very soon.
“Al-?amdu lillah,” Ivan Borz said. All Praise and Thanks to God. “Terrorism is victory. They are one and the same. Terrorism is what unites us under the banner of Allah. Terrorism is what makes us strong.” His black eyes picked out acolytes here and there, poured his intensity, his fervor, into them as one pours boiling water from a pot. “The infidel has money, comfort, indolence, perversions beyond measure. The infidel wishes to impose his countless perversions on us. He has come to our shores, like tar washing up on the margins of our land, befouling us and our sacred way of life, our path to Allah, to Ar-Rahman the Beneficent, to Al-Quddus the Purifier. He has come armed with weapons and lies.
“And that, my family, is why we are gathered here today, at this time, in Cairo, the beating heart of Islam. To be purified in Allah’s grace and holy spirit.” Islam has many hearts, he thought. Cairo is but one of them. These people need to believe in their relevance, they need to know that their lives matter, that they can, in death, make a difference, because their lives are a misery of poverty and hopelessness. They need to believe in victory. In that belief lies strength—and power. Their belief is a vital part of my victory.
“We have been marginalized by the infidel, pushed into the shadows, run up into the mountains that so terrify and confound our enemies. The infidel needs us to feel helpless. The infidel feeds on our hopelessness. Our poverty strengthens him, our bitterness emboldens him as he seeks to grind us under his decadent Gucci shoe.
“Nevertheless, we are not helpless. Allah, the All-Seeing, the All-Knowing, Ar-?im the Exceedingly Merciful, has provided for us. He has armed us with a weapon so powerful that we will find victory, my family. Terrorism is what Allah has given us. Terrorism is all we have to fight the infidel, to fight him as he seeks to destroy us. But terrorism is all we need. Terrorism does what no other weapon on earth can do. Terrorism plunges a dagger into the minds of the infidel. Terrorism strikes fear in the rich, the indolent, the perverted. He cannot sleep for fear of us. He cannot feel happiness because of us. He drugs himself up because of us. He does not know when or where we will strike next. He fears for the future.”
Ivan Borz moved a five-sided box to a place between his knees. The box was made of a dark metal with a rime of frost at its angles. It was icy to the touch, kept cold by the packs of blue gel lining the inside. Ivan Borz lifted the box’s heavy lid, and eve
ry pair of eyes was riveted to the movement of his hands. Setting the lid down, he reached into the box and lifted high the severed head, holding it by a fistful of dark greasy hair. The hair hadn’t been washed in months. Neither had the body to which it belonged.
“An American journalist, captured, interrogated, turned to Islam, martyred in the name of Allah the merciful. His sacrifice is your rallying cry.” His legs unfolded like that of a praying mantis as he rose to his full height. He lifted the head higher so even those in the back rows could see clearly.
“Witness now how the infidel will be defeated. Terrorism will defeat the infidel. This I promise you.”
22
Night had overtaken the cauldron of the day when Bourne arrived in Cairo. The heat was like an oven with the door open instead of closed: stifling yet tolerable. He was almost killed twice in the maelstrom of the city traffic, once when the taxi he was in was nearly broadsided by a truck, another when it overtook and cut off a bus with barely an inch between the vehicles. The taxi left a tail of diesel particulates behind it. It belched more noises than a dyspeptic stomach. The interior stank of falafel grease and stale sweat.
Ah, Cairo! Bourne thought as he vigorously cranked down the window. How do you miss a city and at the same time wish you had never been here?
But then that was Cairo, a seething chaos of contradictions, where ten million vehicles and one stoplight made for a dark and exhilarating passage.
He checked into the nearly deserted El Gezirah Hotel, washed up, changed, then called for a taxi. It took him crosstown in a dizzying, zigzag pattern in order to beat the insane traffic, letting him off at Midan Kit Kat. From there, he walked down to the Nile, through the charcoaled meat and stew scents of the evening. An uneasiness compressed the reddish atmosphere of the city, like a bow drawn too tight from which a launched bolt would at any moment cause devastation.
On the near bank wooden gangplanks led individually to a line of one- and two-story houseboats, some painted, others simply of beaten boards, all weather furrowed and weary. Many of them had once been gaily painted, serving as nightclubs and casinos, but that time was long past. Though remnants of their former glory were everywhere to be seen, in bits of signage, boards of painted gilt and silver, they were dulled now as if viewed in sepia photos.
