Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

“Semtex?”

“How’d you know? He got it from that Ukrainian scumbag Shevchenko.”

“You’re certain?”

“Let’s just say that we had a heart-to-heart with him and he decided to come to Jesus.”

Von Daniken didn’t require any further details.

“Gassan was acting as a facilitator,” Palumbo continued. “He handed over the explosives to someone named Mahmoud Quitab. We ran the name through Langley and Interpol but didn’t get anything. Anyway, this Quitab character took delivery in a white Volkswagen work van with Swiss plates. We don’t have a number.”

Von Daniken had rounded the corner of the garage. As he listened, he noticed that a small chunk of concrete was chipped from the pillar separating the two bays. Visible to the naked eye was a streak of white paint. “A white van? You’re sure of the color?”

“The guy said white. The name Quitab mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing.” Von Daniken fought to keep the anxiety from his voice. “Anything else on this Quitab…phone, address, description?”

“His phone number belonged to a SIM card with a French prefix. We’ve got a request into France Telecom to run its numbers. We’re doing the same with all incoming and outgoing calls registered on Gassan’s phone. Nothing on Quitab’s address or his whereabouts so far, but we did get a description of him. Maybe fifty. Dark hair. Trim. Medium height. Sophisticated. Well dressed. One of them, but with blue eyes.”

One of them, meaning an Arab.

Von Daniken looked at the photo of Blitz. Dark hair. Medium height. A look of sophistication. And, of course, the diamond blue eyes.

Just then, Myer came back with a police officer in tow. Von Daniken asked Palumbo to hold a moment, then addressed the policeman. “Did you read the letter?” he asked.

The officer nodded and explained that it was a note to his parents about daily life. He added that there was no mention of any illegal activities.

Von Daniken took it all in. “And the name? Can you tell me who it was addressed to?”

“Why yes, of course.” The policeman told him the name.

It had to be, thought von Daniken. There was no such thing as coincidence in this game.

“Are you there, Marcus?” asked Palumbo.

“I’m here. Go on.”

“Apparently, this guy Quitab has a setup in your neck of the woods,” said Palumbo. “I called to give you a heads-up.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What do you mean you know?” Palumbo sounded annoyed. “I thought you’d never heard of him.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m at his home right now.”

“You mean you know about this operation?”

“It’s more complicated than that. Quitab is dead.”

“He’s dead? Quitab? How? I mean…great! Jesus Christ, that’s good news. I was worried for a minute. Thought you had a real white-knuckler on your hands. Did you find the explosives, too?”

“Yes, we did.”

“All fifty kilos? Thank God. You guys dodged a major bullet.”

Von Daniken hurried into the garage. He counted the bricks of explosive. Six bundles of five bricks. Thirty kilos at most. “What do you mean that we dodged a bullet, Phil? Do you have a line on what Quitab was planning?”

“I thought you did…” Reception weakened and Palumbo’s voice disappeared in a thicket of crackles. “…fuckin’ crazy bastard.”

“I’m losing you. Can I call you back on a land line?”

“No go. I’m in transit.”

Hoping for a better signal, von Daniken moved out of the garage and stood in the rain. “What did you mean when you said we dodged a bullet?”

“I said that Gassan told us that that fuckin’ crazy Iranian Quitab was going to Switzerland to take down a plane.”

The time in Israel was three hours ahead of Switzerland. Instead of rain and snow, a blistering sun ruled the sky. The mercury nudged the century mark as the shores of the Eastern Mediterranean sweltered beneath an early spring heat wave.

Ten miles north of Tel Aviv, in the rocky coastal hillside town of Herzliya, an emergency meeting was under way on the second floor of the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, better known as the Mossad, Israel’s foreign intelligence service. Present were the heads of the organization’s most important divisions. Collections, which handled intelligence gathering. Political Action and Liaison, which was responsible for dealing with foreign intelligence services, and Special Operations, or Metsada, which supervised the dark side of the business: targeted assassination, sabotage, and kidnapping, among other activities.

“Since when do they have a facility in Chalus?” demanded the fat, proudly unattractive man pacing back and forth at the head of the room. “Last I heard, they’d concentrated their enrichment efforts at Natanz and Esfahan.” Dressed in short sleeves, with thinning black hair, an unlined face, and a reptile’s bulging eyes, he might have been forty or seventy. What was unmistakable, however, was his air of seething resolve. His name was Zvi Hirsch and for the past seven years, he’d been chief of the Mossad.

“We can’t find anything on the maps. No satellite imagery. Nothing,” said Collections. “They’ve been very clever. They managed to keep its construction secret.”

“Secret, indeed!” said Zvi Hirsch. “How many centrifuges do they need to process that much uranium? We’re talking one hundred kilos in less than two years.”

“In so short a time? At least fifty thousand.”

“And how many companies manufacture the equipment needed to do that kind of job?”

“Less than a hundred,” said Collections. “Exports are strictly controlled and monitored.”

“I can see that,” Hirsch replied dryly.

“Clearly, they received their technology from outside the usual channels,” said Metsada. He was dark and rail thin and spoke in a gentle voice that sounded as if he wouldn’t hurt a fly. “Most probably from manufacturers of dual-use goods.”

“In Hebrew, please.”

“Products made for civilian purposes that can be used by the defense industry. In this case, it would be equipment to assist in the fuel enrichment cycle. High-speed centrifuges sold to dairies to make yogurt cultures that can also be used to separate uranium hexafluoride gas. Heat exchangers designed for steel mills that can be used to cool reactors. Those products aren’t subject to export licenses or end-user certificates. Think of it as a false flag operation.”

“False flag? I thought we’d cornered the market on that game.” Hirsch crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Okay, so they have the stuff. Can they get it here?”

“They successfully test-fired the Shahab-4 long-range missile sixty days ago,” said Collections.

“How long from launch until it hits us?”

“An hour at the outside.”

“Can we shoot it down?” Hirsch asked.

“Theoretically, we’re as safe as a baby in her mother’s arms.”

Israel relied on a two-tier air defense structure to destroy incoming long-range missiles. The first was the Arrow II ground-to-air missile, and the second, the next-generation Patriot missile system. Each suffered from the same problems. They could only be launched once the incoming missile was within one hundred kilometers of the target-that is to say, within minutes of striking. And neither had ever been tested in combat.

“What about something that gets in under the radar? Do they have any cruise missiles?”

“Rumors, but that’s it.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Hirsch. “What about the Shahab’s accuracy?”

The man from Political Action and Liaison spoke up. “Accuracy is something that Germany and France and the U.S. have to worry about. In our case, it’s beside the point. Any hit within fifty miles of the target is a fatal blow. If they can smuggle fifty thousand centrifuges into the country under our eyes and build a state-of-the-art enrichment facility without anyone hearing about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve made advancements in that area as well.”