LOST AND LETHAL Page 3

  “This will be my first.”

  “Your first? No. Really?”

  Molka allowed the calmed dogs to jump down from her lap. “Yes.”

  “When Azzur told me I would be paired with an experienced warrior, I thought he meant experienced in tasks too. That means I’m the Counsel’s senior employee on this task.” Uri presented a self-assured sneer. “Which means Azzur will likely name me as team leader of this task.”

  The caretaker woman appeared in the open glass door behind Molka and Uri. “The man named Azzur has arrived. He requests you meet him in the business room.”

  Apparently, the estate’s owner was a businessman because his mansion’s first-floor business room was all business.

  The large open space featured a dozen cubicles with workstations. Two sat occupied by young males engrossed on laptops: a taller thin one with short brown hair and a light brown beard and a shorter stocky one with a shaved bald head and brown beard.

  Commercial printers, copy machines, and walls covered in monitors tuned to business channels and various world stock exchanges rounded out that section of the room.

  Molka, shadowed by Uri, crossed the space and headed toward a glassed-in room at the far side. The room contained a long, boardroom-like table lined with high-back black leather office chairs.

  And at the table’s head—wearing a short-sleeved tan colored shirt and smoking a cigarette—waited Azzur.

  Molka and Uri entered through a glass door into a chain smoker’s haze.

  Azzur motioned to the two seats on his left. “Sit.”

  Molka and Uri complied.

  Azzur pointed a remote control at a large monitor on the right-side wall. On the screen appeared the photo of a chubby, middle-aged man with thinning dark hair and a bushy dark mustache. He wore a khaki military dress uniform adorned with elaborate gold rank insignia on the shoulder boards and many chest decorations.

  Azzur spoke. “This gentleman, for the purposes of this task, is code-named Ibis. He is a very high-ranking intelligence officer from a target country who wishes to defect to our country. Stated reason: he has become disillusioned with his country’s policies toward ours and seeks to assist us in achieving a peaceful solution. Actual reason: he fell out of favor with his country’s regime and learned he would soon be arrested and likely executed. Our prime minister has instructed the Counsel to bring him to safety.”

  Uri spoke up. “Which target country is he defecting from?”

  “That is classified,” Azzur said. “Ibis’ grown children live in France. Two days ago, his wife joined them. And last night, Ibis slipped across the border into southeastern Turkey.”

  Uri nodded. “So, the target country he’s defecting from is Syria, Iran, or—depending on its classification this week—Iraq.”

  Azzur flicked ash into a cut-crystal ashtray. “That is classified.”

  Molka spoke up. “Was Ibis smuggled across the border by our people?”

  “No,” Azzur said. “The border region Ibis crossed into is extremely remote and mountainous. And the inhabitants, although technically Turks, identify more by their traditional tribes and speak their own language and practice their own culture. Ibis is currently under the care of a legendary tribal leader and self-proclaimed warlord known as Zoran the Great.”

  Uri frowned, perplexed. “Zoran the who?”

  Azzur clicked the remote at the screen and brought up the photo of an older man’s weathered brown face punctuated by deep-set dark eyes, thick graying eyebrows, and a large, prominent nose over a thick gray beard. A gold-colored keffiyeh covered his head.

  Azzur blew smoke. “Zoran the Great.”

  “You say he’s a warlord,” Molka said. “Is there a conflict in his region?”

  “Zoran the Great’s domain—as he calls it—lies within the Golden Crescent, of which there is always conflict.”

  “The Golden Crescent,” Uri said. “That’s what they call the opium smuggling route coming up from Afghanistan, right?”

  “That is correct,” Azzur said.

  Molka spoke up. “Ibis is under the care of a drug smuggler?”

  “No. Zoran the Great, with the help of his loyal army of fighters, only provides well-compensated protection for the smugglers, as they pass through his domain, from the rival tribes and criminals wishing to steal the highly lucrative commodity.”

  Molka frowned. “Providing well-compensated security for drug smugglers almost sounds worse than smuggling itself.”

  Azzur flicked ash. “It is a little more complex than that. Zoran the Great has come to accept what all in that region have come to accept for centuries. Which is that the smuggling there will never stop. Therefore, he believes it is better to know and approve who passes through his domain—and make a profit for safeguarding their passage—while at the same time disallowing the more dangerous and violent elements in the smuggling trade entrance. Thereby safeguarding his people.”

  “Ok,” Molka said. “There’s some nobility in that.”

  Azzur continued. “Your task is as follows: Uri will fly you both in the aircraft he brought here to a remote airstrip near Mucize, Turkey, which is the main village in Zoran the Great’s domain and his home base. You will carry with you our cash payment agreed upon with Zoran the Great as a courtesy fee for his guardian services in sheltering Ibis.”

  “How much is the cash courtesy fee?” Uri said.

  “Four-million Turkish Lira.”

  “How much is that in our money?”

  “About two million,” Azzur said.

  Uri blew out a harsh breath in a whistle. “Is Ibis really worth that much to us? I ask because I’ve been watching a lot of espionage thriller movies lately, and anytime someone with a high security clearance is captured by or defects to the enemy, his people immediately change any codes he has, cancel operations he knows about and recalls any covert assets he runs in foreign countries. You said Ibis disappeared last night; they’ve probably already changed everything usable he would give us.”

  Molka nodded. “The Unit has some contingency procedures like that too.”

  Azzur continued. “Ibis, as such, is not worth the amount we will pay for some of the reasons you have stated. However, what he’ll turn over to us is. Several years ago, Ibis’ home country worked with another target country to build a secret, well-hidden nuclear reactor to produce weapons-grade plutonium. By the time we discovered the reactor—and sent Molka’s former unit to destroy it—the reactor was only a month away from becoming operational. This was a major intelligence failure on our behalf thanks to Ibis’ cunning.”

  “In what way?” Molka said.

  Azzur continued. “As supervisor of the secret reactor, Ibis insisted that no electromagnetic communications be used on any part of it during construction. No telephones, cellphones, emails, or even old fax machines. All communications were put to paper, put in envelopes sealed with wax, and delivered by motorcycle courier. And then immediately destroyed after use.”

  Uri smiled. “That’s very World War One-ish.”

  “Yes,” Azzur said. “A brilliant use of retrogression that completely foiled our SIGINT until the last possible moment. However, Ibis’ home country was hardly dissuaded by the destruction of their first reactor. They are planning to construct another secret reactor—again with the assistance of the other target country—and, when that is completed, they will assist with the construction of secret reactors in several other target countries.”

  “Righteous mercy,” Uri said. “That’s an epic disaster for us in the making.”

  “That is correct,” Azzur said.

  “And how will Ibis help us prevent that epic disaster?” Molka said.

  Azzur continued. “Late last year, at an off the record meeting, the regime leaders of all these target countries shared their approved locations, in GPS coordinate form—for the new secret reactors.”

  “Ibis was present at this meeting and—as he did with all the documentation to the firs
t reactor—committed these GPS coordinates to a paper list, put the list in an envelope, and sealed the envelope with wax imprinted with his personal crest using a signet ring he always wears.” Azzur switched the screen to the close-up photo of a thick finger wearing a gold signet ring featuring an eagle holding a shield.

  “That’s very Renaissance Age-ish,” Uri said.

  Azzur continued. “Several months ago, already planning his defection, Ibis placed the envelope containing the list in a briefcase and brought it with him to the capital city of this island, Nicosia. Before leaving, he secretly secured the briefcase in a hotel safe in Nicosia where it remains today.”

  Uri nodded. “And that’s what makes him worth four-million Turkish Lira.”

  “Yes,” Azzur said. “We actually feel as though we are getting a tremendous bargain as Ibis’ list is currently the most sought-after document in all of the free world intelligence. For their part, the Americans have thousands of people spending millions of dollars trying to obtain it. But they will never find it because Ibis himself will place it in my hands.”

  “How do we know he isn’t lying to us?” Uri said. “What if there isn’t a list. Or maybe he just made one up.”

  Azzur stubbed out his cigarette butt and lit a new one. “Before we agreed to bring Ibis to safety, we informed him that should his list prove false, we would immediately take him back to the border and turn him over to his country’s brutal secret police. And Ibis is well aware of the unspeakably horrific fate they have planned for a traitor of his magnitude. Therefore, the list exists, it is legitimate, and is waiting precisely where he claims.”

  “How will we connect with Ibis?” Molka said.

  “When you arrive in Turkey, you will meet a contact. Through them, you will arrange to deliver the courtesy fee to Zoran the Great in exchange for Ibis. You will then fly back here with Ibis and turn him over to me, and I will take him to Nicosia to retrieve his list. So as you now realize, your task is merely a simple exchange and should not be too difficult. Even considering your neophyte statuses.”

  Molka and Uri both raised their hands.

  Azzur waved their hands down. “I will start addressing your questions before you ask them.” He clicked the remote again, and the screen filled with a professionally taken image of a thin, early 30s, dark-haired, dimpled, pretty man, sporting a slim-cut black suit and leaning crossed armed and confident against a silver Rolls Royce.

  Azzur continued. “This is Tariq, your contact. He has been embedded with Zoran the Great and his fighters the past month and a half, laying the groundwork for your task. He comes to us courtesy of our friends in military intelligence. He was born and raised in the same area as Zoran the Great’s domain. Therefore, he speaks the local language and knows the local culture and is familiar with the local terrain. He also speaks good English in which you two will communicate with him.”

  Uri chuckled. “What’s up with that pic of him? Is he a model too?”

  Azzur blew smoke. “Tariq left Zoran the Great’s domain as a teenager to attend university in Istanbul on a mathematics scholarship. He subsequently dropped out to become a professional gambler. He also, on occasion, provided companion services for wealthy older married women. The photoshoot from which that photo was taken was a present from one of those lady admirers.”

  Molka grimaced. “A gigolo. Ick.”

  Azzur flicked ash. “Our military intelligence recruited Tariq as an asset when their surveillance of a ruthless Turkish special forces commander caught Tariq on video philandering with the commander’s wife. This commander became aware of his wife’s extra-marital proclivities and has threatened to kill the first one of her suitors he identifies.”

  Uri chuckled again. “Sounds like our military intelligence blackmailed Tariq more than recruited him.”

  “That is correct,” Azzur said. “Which is how many assets are recruited. Tariq has completed several successful missions for our military intelligence, and I have been told he is smart and exceptionally resourceful.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Molka said. “For this task, we’re dealing with a gigolo, a warlord, and a turncoat defector. What, no genocidal mass murderer to add to the mix?”

  Azzur frowned. “Your sarcasm aside, unfortunately, thanks to the Traitors, we have to make compromises as to whom we deal with.”

  Azzur clicked the remote again, and a wide satellite view of rugged terrain appeared. “This is Zoran the Great’s domain. While there are no set boundaries—other than what Zoran the Great claims they are at a given moment—it encompasses some 2,500 square kilometers, with the main population center being the village of Mucize. Several much smaller villages and settlements are also scattered across it. As you can see, a large rocky mountain range runs through the area, and the surrounding valleys are mostly sparsely vegetated and contain boulders and large rock formations.”

  “The main occupations are small farms and raising goats. On occasion, the Turkish Army will send a reinforced patrol into Zoran the Great’s domain just to remind him it is still their country. However, when they leave, they always know that part of it is still Zoran the Great’s land.”

  “Where’s the airstrip?” Uri said.

  Azzur clicked to another satellite photo displaying a small green grassy plateau at the foot of a mountain. A dirt strip ran the plateau’s length. “This is the airstrip. It is approximately 40 kilometers east of Mucize.”

  Uri focused on the image. “Can you zoom in more?”

  Azzur zoomed in tighter.

  “It looks like it was freshly cut into that grass,” Uri said. “How old is that photograph?”

  “Recent,” Azzur said. “Tariq supervised the construction in the last few weeks.”

  “Why did he build it so far away from Mucize?” Molka said.

  Azzur replied. “That is the nearest suitable location—as noted by the preponderance of boulders and large rock formations obscuring the surrounding valleys—which also offers some degree of seclusion from nosey locals.

  “It looks pretty short and narrow,” Uri said. “What’s the length and width?”

  “We will discuss that during your individual briefing to begin now.” Azzur then addressed Molka. “I will summon you again when I am ready to give you your individual briefing.”

  “Alright.” Molka stood to leave.

  Uri raised his hand again. “One quick question before she goes.”

  “What is your question?” Azzur said.

  “She told me this is her first task, so when we get on the ground, shouldn’t the Counsel’s senior employee act as team leader.”

  Azzur stubbed out his cigarette butt. “As the Counsel’s senior employee on this task, Uri will act as team leader on the ground.”

  Uri’s face beamed.

  Molka left the room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  About an hour later, the caretaker woman summoned Molka from playing with the dogs in the backyard again to return to the glass boardroom.

  Molka arrived, and Azzur directed her to her previous seat.

  Azzur lit another cigarette, blew smoke, and viewed Molka with a disappointed frown. “During your time in the IDF, if you had struck a fellow soldier, what would have happened?”

  “I would probably have been brought up on charges and then dishonorably discharged.”

  “Consider that my policy as well, should you backhand another Counsel employee.”

  Molka leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Did Uri also tell you what he did to get backhanded?”

  “Yes. However, Uri is not only the program’s lone fixed-wing pilot; he is also one of the few pilots in our country who can fly a Cessna 350 under, and in the gaps of, Turkish and Syrian radar coverage and land and take off on a makeshift airstrip which is smaller than the recommended length.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” Molka said. “I don’t trust pilots like him, though.”

  “Like him in what way?”

  “The
risk-takers and showoffs who pull reckless stunts. They act like their behavior comes from their swagger and hyper-confidence. But it actually comes from emotional instability and fragility, and it’s really just a sad cry for help.”

  Azzur offered Molka a curious gaze. “I was not aware that in addition to being a helicopter pilot and a veterinarian, you were also trained as a behavioral psychologist.”

  Molka smirked. “Cute.”

  “I also find it ironic that you speak of Uri’s reckless flying conduct. In my interview with your commanding major, he mentioned how you and some of your fellow pilots were reprimanded for playing ‘chicken’ with your helicopters.”

  Molka shrugged. “Sometimes, there were long spans between missions. We had to do something to keep the adrenaline flowing. And the reprimand we received was only verbal, which made it worth it.”

  “In any case, you should not judge Uri too harshly.”

  “I don’t judge him. I just don’t like his type.”

  Azzur flicked ash. “Perhaps there is also some envy within you since I assigned him to be team leader. Would you like to know why I did so?”

  “There’s no envy in me over that. But yes, tell me why.”

  “The fact he has already flown projects on three tasks had no bearing on the decision. It is purely for motivational reasons. Every project has a unique motivational trigger. And Uri’s is to be recognized as a special talent and therefore worthy of special recognition.”

  “And what’s my motivational trigger?” Molka said.

  “Yours is the best type: a self-firing trigger. With your unrelenting need to avenge your little sister’s death, I only have to point you in the right direction. You will then either complete the task or die trying. All for your little Janetta.”

  Molka’s eyes fell to the tabletop. “Can we move on to the briefing?”