False Flag Page 5

  She parked again and left the car. The grass was long and wet, not easy to walk through. She snapped a branch from a tree and tested the depth of the water by the shore, moving along the edge, prodding, seeking. Grass whisked against her parka. Algae dripped from the tip of the stick. She nearly lost her footing and, with a shudder, scaled higher up the bank, proceeding with greater caution.

  She was leaving footprints in the cold mud, but there was nothing for it. By the time she finally found a spot that met all her requirements, she had come nearly a hundred yards from the Grand Marquis. She marked the site by plunging the stick into the ground.

  Lining up the car wheels, she put it in neutral and pulled the parking brake. Then she slipped out, leaned back in, and let the brake go.

  The Grand Marquis rolled, gaining speed, the open door flapping. It hit the water with a splash that sent up a flurry of startled birds from a lakeside tree. The car vanished beneath the boiling black surface … and then, with an antic bob, floated just as quickly back up.

  For the next three minutes, waiting on tenterhooks, she watched the big sedan drift. It rotated clockwise, coasting slowly farther from shore. After describing an eccentric U, it listed suddenly, hard to the right. The left fender rose; the right dropped. And all at once the Grand Marquis was gone, leaving behind only a sigh of bubbles.

  She watched, making sure the car did not magically bob back up again.

  At last she turned, moving back across the field, retracing her route to the fire road.

  She liked hiking. Wear out the body, quiet the mind. Trails covered Israel from northern Galilee to southern Eilat, winding through deserts and forests and along cliffs and riverbeds. Israelis grew up wandering their land, working it, feeling it, knowing it, treasuring it.

  Of course, it was one thing to hike through a balmy Mediterranean paradise with a loved one, as she and Asher had marched endlessly outside Batar Zikim during tironut—basic training. It was quite another to press through this oppressive ancient forest in midautumn, through smells of resin and turpentine and leaf mold, tripping over roots and vines, with gigantic trees towering high on every side. A girl’s imagination could run away with her in a forest like this. She wished she had brought the rifle just in case, even if only for use as a club.

  But if there were bears out, they kept to themselves. She plodded doggedly on. Reaching the fire road, she followed it. The route was longer but safer. Get lost in these woods and she might never find her way out again.

  Cold wind sliced through the parka. She took deep breaths as she moved. Flood the blood with oxygen, and the body generated extra heat. Something hidden in the forest—bats?—squeaked and squealed as she passed. Something else lowed, long and deep. She pressed on, wearing out the body, quieting the mind.

  Mud squished underfoot, making every step slide. Should have brought boots. Despite the discomfort, she was glad to be here. She had been Tiffany Watson for too long. She had lost touch with her true self. She remembered the tick of hesitation she had felt before crossing the threshold of the apartment back in Portland: a kind of Stockholm syndrome.

  It took longer than expected to reach the crossroads—so long that she became convinced she had taken a wrong turn. Still no bars on her phone. She kept going. Finally, she encountered gravel. Then asphalt. She turned right.

  At last, with the first rind of pinkish radiance showing behind the planet’s rim, she reached the house again. She let herself in through the garage’s side door, drank a glass of water in the kitchen, used the bathroom. In her new bedroom, she stripped down to underwear, then collapsed back across the mattress.

  She rolled over, punching the pillow, and exhaled. Outside, a morning breeze replied. Thorny shrubs scratched against the windowpane. The mountains rustled beneath vanishing stars. She felt tired but satisfied.

  Soon she slept again, this time deeply, without dreams.

  North of Tel Aviv, Israel

  The ramsad helped himself to the dog-eared pack of Gauloises and accepted a light, cupping his hands against the courtyard’s teasing wind. Exhaling a curl of smoke, he raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Before Yoni Yariv could speak, Naomi came out of the house, bearing a platter and a cardigan. She set down the tray and then tried to drape the sweater across her husband’s shoulders. He shrugged her off.

  “You’ll catch cold,” she scolded.

  “I’m fine.”

  “He complains.” She gave Yoni a wink. “But he likes to be babied.” She draped the sweater again and made a final finicky adjustment before leaving them alone again.

  When she was gone, the ramsad poured two glasses and then gave Yoni his undivided attention. The younger man had acquired a light suntan, the director noticed, during his brief visit to France. But the fatigue showed in his drooping, red-rimmed eyes.

  Yoni lit a Gauloise for himself. “The cell,” he began. “As it turns out, already on our radar. But we underestimated them. Didn’t consider them worthy of Di Yerushe.” His thick lips narrowed. “I underestimated them. I accept full responsibility.”

  The director said nothing.

  “Their leader is named Maranville. Affiliated, in the past, with National Front and Generation Identitaire. But never accomplished much beyond making a fool of himself. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Or so I thought.” His eyes, lit with a strange fire, hung without focusing on the middle distance. “The gendarmerie agreed. They missed the shipment, just as we did. It won’t happen again. I’ve got an operative already worming his way into Maranville’s confidence. Now that we know what the fool is capable of, let’s see what else he might lead us to.”

  The director sampled his wine and gave a small nod.

  “Evidently, the sarin came from Russia. An ex–Red Army elite, looking to make a few extra rubles. Smuggled out through Pankisi Gorge; then through Molenbeek in Brussels, into the southern suburbs of Paris, where Maranville took possession. He knew he had something hot. But with Vigipirate on heightened alert, he decided to look abroad for opportunities. And so contact was made with an American associate: Posse Comitatus. Also on our radar, of course. Delivery was arranged via CMA CGM.”

  The ramsad snorted. French and American neo-Nazis working together—still, one had to admire the spirit of cooperation. Of course, the shipping corporation’s involvement was hardly a surprise. With four hundred ports internationally, CMA CGM, the world’s third largest container transport company, had been caught repeatedly—by Israel, South Africa, Nigeria, the United Arab Emirates—shipping weapons under false cover to Iran. Anything for a buck.

  “In Portland, Jana caught the scent.” Yoni moved his shoulders. “And the rest you know.”

  The ramsad smoked pensively. “She is at the safe house?”

  “Awaiting instruction.” Yoni took a small sip of wine, then reached into his leather messenger bag and handed over a file. “For your information.”

  The director found himself regarding the familiar Mossad seal, a seven-lamp menorah encircled by the verse Proverbs 11:14, Where there is no guidance, a nation fails, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety.

  The dossier began with a standard IDF personnel file: a young woman, in stark black-and-white, staring insolently into the camera. Cool gray eyes flecked with harlequin sparkles. A pretty girl, and interesting looking. Something of the fox in her hungry, slender face, but also something of the rabbit.

  Jana Dahan had received her Tzav Rishon, or First Notice, in Jerusalem six years before. She had scored highly enough on her matriculation exam to qualify for an elite unit but had opted instead to join the ordinary Military Police Corps. Eager to get her service done, no doubt, with a minimum of fuss and danger. Just another young girl pressed into compulsory service, far enough removed from the Shoah to take the existence of Israel for granted.

  She had trained at Bahad 4, commonly known as
Batar Zikim. For ten months, she had performed her duties, diligently but unexceptionally, at a Haifa checkpoint. Then—turning the page—she had been wounded in a suicide bombing sponsored by al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigades. The attack had claimed the lives of two of her fellows. Jana had suffered burns all down her right side: face/head, neck/shoulder, chest/abdomen. A second photograph, taken in a hospital bed, showed the pretty face now welted in scars, and considerably less insolent.

  Full-thickness skin grafts had followed. After six months’ recovery, she had transferred to Haman, the intelligence corps, where she had distinguished herself as a fast, precise, and intuitive translator of Arabic and English. An administrative remark upon discharge cited exceptional intellect, ingenuity, and commitment to the cause. The nameless administrator then submitted a recommendation for possible continuing fieldwork.

  One could fill in the spaces between the lines easily enough. Just another compulsory conscription—until she became the victim of an act of violence. Then, having lost friends, having had her beauty marred, having felt firsthand the fragility of her own mortal coil, she had become a patriot at last. Finding herself for the first time in a position to supply more than mere cannon fodder, she had excelled. Upon discharge, she was recommended for “continuing”—read clandestine—fieldwork. Now Jana Dahan found herself centrally entangled in the most important operation of the director’s career.

  He turned another page. The IDF file ended, and the dossier picked up with Yoni Yariv’s own notes. Jana was an only child, whose mother still lived in Ramat Denya. Her father, a longtime editor at Yedioth Ahronoth, Israel’s largest newspaper, had died of a heart attack eighteen years before. The mother had never remarried. Jana had spent childhood summers with an aunt in New York City. This intimate acquaintance with America, coupled with her newfound patriotism, had made her an ideal candidate for Di Yerushe.

  Here was another photograph: a more mature Jana, scars mostly but not entirely gone; face leaner, foxier, than ever. The insolence was back, but tempered now with a curious hint of dark mirth.

  Further training had followed, in tradecraft, cryptography, and Krav Maga, the hand-to-hand combat taught to Israeli Special Forces. Under Yoni’s supervision, she had assembled multiple alternate identities in America. Then she had gone deep undercover, severing communications with her handlers. Bringing the war to their enemies before their enemies brought it to them—the kind of able young woman, thought the ramsad with a flash of pride, that the ultimate fate of the Jews depended on.

  Lighting another cigarette, Yoni said, “I’ve given some thought to what comes next.”

  The ramsad closed the file and tilted his head.

  “Pull our punches and we risk wasting this chance. They will hem and haw but stop short of sanctioning a truly decisive response. But if we seize the opportunity—if we have the balls—we might accomplish something genuinely historic.” A pause. “Keef zoobuk?” How’s your cock?

  A suspended moment, as the director marveled at the youth’s impudence. Then he murmured the expected response: “Zie Hadeed.” Like steel.

  “So.” The youngster nodded with satisfaction. “I’ve considered, and rejected, some less challenging targets. Ground Zero, for one. Killing a handful of tourists does not make the most emphatic of points. Besides, too much depends on the wind.”

  The director shot a restless glance back toward the house. Naomi was nowhere to be seen.

  “More challenging,” Yoni continued. “And more rewarding: Times Square on New Year’s Eve. To get near the best targets, of course, one must pass through stringent security. But it’s possible. Vacuum-seal the chemicals against sensors, trick the dogs with false scents. Again, however, there’s the question of wind. Also …” Listlessly flicking his cigarette ash onto the courtyard’s clay pavers. “Dramatic, yes. The point is made. But does it really surprise anyone? Does it maximize the psychological impact? We might achieve an even more profound effect. The greater the risk, the greater the reward.”

  The director waited. From inside the house, he heard the faint rumble of Naomi starting the dishwasher.

  “Washington.” Yoni affected a modest tone, but his self-regard shone through. “Of course, we have potential accomplices everywhere. Thank our enemies for that. Any Jew with half a brain finds, in any day’s news, reason to extend himself on our behalf. He knows that soon it will not be SCUDs and suicide vests killing our innocent women and children, but ballistic missiles, chemical plagues, nuclear fire. Soon, one side or the other will strike the critical blow at last—and history will be written by the victors.”

  The boy was enjoying this too much. He was orating without appreciating the intrinsic pathos of their subject.

  But that did not mean he was wrong.

  “One of our allies might deliver a package to a press conference. Onto the White House lawn, inside the briefing room in the West Wing. Perhaps even into the Situation Room, or the Oval Office itself. Which started me thinking: dream big, and who knows what we might accomplish.”

  Yoni paused, letting the wind move and shift insinuatingly through the courtyard. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed, almost reverent.

  “Which brings me to my recommendation.”

  Chapter Three

  Ellicott Street NW,

  Washington, DC

  Michael Fletcher strapped on his leg. First the skintight liner, hugging the stump beneath his left knee. Then the limb itself: molded plastic casing, carbon fiber outer shell. With nine distinct clicks, the liner’s pin ratcheted into its housing mechanism. When he put his full weight down, the aluminum ankle flexed naturally, accepting his two hundred pounds with ease.

  He did fifty push-ups and then leaned against a wall, breathing hard. He dropped and did fifty more, then leaned against the wall again, panting, chest and arms burning, veins on his biceps standing out blue and engorged.

  He dressed in his usual white shirt and dark slacks. Cotton stretched taut across shoulders that were heavier, broader, stronger now than they had been in Iraq, thanks to the incessant exercise. Phil Eggleston, his care coordinator at the DC VA, encouraged the exercise. Eggleston urged him to take it even further, to take up boxing or a martial art, push himself to the limit. But of course Eggleston would not give Michael the top-of-the-line prosthesis, the one that used biosensors to read the muscles’ intentions, that would make such activities truly feasible. Electromyographics, Eggleston had explained, were given only to those cases the VA deemed most in need. Transtibial amputees qualified only for good old-fashioned affordable modular prostheses, with all the attendant joys of worn stumps, contracture formation, and degraded skin.

  In his son’s room, a motionless lump hulked beneath blankets. Michael sat down on the edge of the bed. “Hey, buddy.” He nudged the lump. “Up and at ’em.”

  A thick moan.

  “Get on up, kiddo. You know what day it is?”

  Sleepy blinks.

  “It’s Halloween! Get up, get dressed. Brush your teeth. Breakfast.”

  Heading downstairs, he detoured to turn the thermostat up a few degrees. In the three weeks since Stacy left, Indian summer had retreated, winter advancing impatiently to claim the territory. Rolling his shoulders beneath the clinging shirt, he went into the kitchen and started coffee. He freshened Licorice’s food and changed her water. He unhooked his phone from its charger and double-checked the time for the day’s first hearing: 10:00 a.m.

  He scrambled eggs and poured orange juice. Silas wandered down a few minutes later, toothpaste smudged around his mouth, blankie trailing from one hand. He was wearing his Batman costume, shirt backward, sans mask, and carrying a board book, Good Night, Darth Vader. Climbing into his chair, the boy positioned the book and the blanket carefully on either side of his plate, like sentries.

  As Michael forked out eggs, Silas asked, “What does ‘growing apart’ mean?”

>   The fork paused. The kid had a hell of a memory. Sometimes things percolated inside that mysterious little brain for days, even weeks, before suddenly popping out, seemingly apropos of nothing.

  After a moment, the fork moved again. “It means growing up, bud. But growing up in different directions.”

  “But you and Mommy are already grown up.”

  “Even grown-ups keep growing up.” Michael pulled out his chair. “Everybody keeps growing up, for as long as they’re alive.”

  “Sheila’s parents are divorced, and so are Eric’s. And they get more candy now because their mommy and daddy both give it to them all the time.”

  “They must get lots of tummy aches.”

  “Why did Mommy say it’s not my fault?”

  “Because sometimes, when mommies and daddies split up, kids think it’s their fault.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. They just do, sometimes.”

  “But is it my fault?”

  “Absolutely not, buddy. Don’t ever think that.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Then Silas asked, “Will you marry someone else?”

  “Not anytime soon.”

  “Will Mommy?”

  “Not anytime soon.”

  “But after a while?”

  “I don’t know, buddy.”

  “Will you have more babies?”

  “Not anytime soon, that’s for sure.” Michael pushed back his chair, picked up his barely touched plate. “Hurry. We’re late. And turn your shirt around. It’s backwards.”

  He drove to preschool in Brookland, double-parked, and walked his son inside. Hallways decorated with stick-figure families and capital-lowercase letter pairs, and aswarm with pint-size superheroes, ninjas, aliens, and Jedi. Kneeling, he administered a goodbye hug and kiss. Clinging for a moment too long; sinking into the warmth, the clean fresh scent of the boy’s neck. At last he let go.