Betrayal

By Jay Greenstein

Rumor has it that a terrorist group has a nuclear bomb, and plans to use it. Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency, claims it’s a harmless fake. Ben Fisher, CIA agent, only knows that someone is trying very hard to kill him, and that it’s getting harder to tell friend from foe every day.

From Tel-Aviv to halls of CIA headquarters; from Upstate New York to the deserts of Israel, Ben must hunt and be hunted. In the end, though, it’s up to him, with the help of a terrorist’s daughter, to make sense out of the endless layers of deception that seem likely to provoke a bloody and senseless war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Greenstein
• Release date: Feb 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370968022

Jay Greenstein

I'm a storyteller. My skills at writing are subject to opinion, my punctuation has been called interesting, at best—but I am a storyteller. I am, of course, many other things. In seven decades of living, there are great numbers of things that have attracted my attention. I am, for example, an electrician. I can also design, build, and install a range of things from stairs and railings to flooring, and tile backsplashes. I can even giftwrap a box from the inside, so to speak, by wallpapering the house. I'm an engineer, one who has designed computers and computer systems; one of which—during the bad old days of the cold war—flew in the plane designated as the American President's Airborne Command Post: The Doomsday Jet. I've spent seven years as the chief-engineer of a company that built bar-code readers. I spent thirteen of the most enjoyable years of my life as a scoutmaster, and three, nearly as good, as a cubmaster. I joined the Air Force to learn jet engine mechanics, but ended up working in broadcast and closed circuit television, serving in such unlikely locations as the War Room of the Strategic Air Command, and a television station on the island of Okinawa. I have been involved in sports car racing, scuba diving, sailing, and anything else that sounded like fun. I can fix most things that break, sew a fairly neat seam, and have raised three pretty nice kids, all of who are smarter and prettier than I am—more talented, too, thanks to the genes my wife kindly provided. Once, while camping with a group of cubs and their families, one of the dads announced, "You guys better make up crosses to keep the Purple Bishop away." When I asked for more information, the man shrugged and said, "I don't really know much about the story. It's some kind of a local thing that was mentioned on my last camping trip." Intrigued, I wondered if I could come up with something to go with his comment about the crosses; something to provide a gentle terror-of-the-night to entertain the boys. The result was a virtual forest of crosses outside the boys' tents. That was the event that switched on something within me that, now, more than twenty-five years later, I can't seem to switch off. Stories came and came… so easily it was sometimes frightening. Stories so frightening that one boy swore he watched my eyes begin to glow with a dim red light as I told them (it was the campfire reflecting from my ...

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ben Fisher luxuriated in the unique flavor of Jerusalem—enjoying the warmth of the waning day and savoring the aromas, both exotic and profane. As his feet measured the warren of alleyways and narrow streets composing the old city, the scents reaching his nostrils ranged from the fragrance of fresh-cut oranges, hawked by a street vendor, to the tang of solder flux emanating from the metalworker’s stall. Fresh baked bread and pastries vied with the stench of animal dung, while the pervasive smell of the ages overlaid them all.

He sauntered along the Via Dolorosa—the path said to have been walked by Jesus on the way to his crucifixion—his demeanor that of the typical tourist. Close on either side the buildings presented an almost unbroken sweep of wall, hemming him in with stone. Ahead, an arch spanned the street, its odd, unbalanced shape announcing that the street had been wider when the structure was built. To his right a group of children gathered into a tight noisy huddle, playing a game. They were clustered on a set of worn stone steps, whose wide risers passed through an equally worn stone wall—climbing in a slow curve that hid their ultimate destination. Such a pathway often led to another street, wandering its own curved way through the steep hillsides of the city. It sometimes led to a courtyard, a business, a school, or even to the door of a private home. With a street sign seldom in evidence, one never knew.

Stopping for a moment, he watched the children play, trying to make sense of their game. He chuckled as he realized that it could be played nowhere else. They’d marked certain of the cracks and holes in the paving stones with chalk, signifying a goal or obstacle to their progress, and were arguing over the rules. One of the boys, a dark-eyed Arab, from the look of him, glanced up and smiled, seeing in his gaze the kinship of one who has played such a game.

As he moved on he reflected that one of the boys wore a knitted skullcap decorated with a six-pointed star, identifying him as a Jew, while the others were obviously Arab children. He wondered if their parents knew of their friendship. He sighed, shaking his head over the fact that children must be taught who to hate, and wishing that it were not so.

Turning a corner identified as the Seventh Station of the Cross, by a plaque on the wall, he began to pay closer attention to the goings-on around him. His destination was just ahead, a tiny shop carrying the unlikely title, Dallas Silversmith.

Deliberately, he arrived after the tourists’ departure and before the call for prayer, a time when he could conduct his business with a minimum of people in the shop. Entering, he was pleased to find the shop empty. The tinkling bell on the door had roused the shopkeeper from drowsy rest on a backless stool. A short, thick, fire hydrant of a man, he wore a finely tailored three-piece suit, with a checkered kaffiyeh—the head-covering of a devout Muslim—of equal quality.

Good afternoon, the man said, smiling a greeting and getting to his feet—coming to meet him at the door. You’ve picked an excellent time to visit, my friend. I’m leaving for the United States next Monday, so I’m selling everything at half-price. He waved an arm toward gleaming showcases filled with the finest products of the silversmith’s art. The man’s English, he noted, was flawless, though it carried an Arabic lilt to the pronunciation. The man followed that with a smile of inquiry, awaiting his response. Inwardly, he chuckled. Virtually every shop in the old city began their bargaining with such a claim. Always, it was an auspicious time to visit, and always, the merchandise was selling at unprecedented low prices.

I’m here to pick up a piece for Mr. Ghoti. It was supposed to be ready today.

The man lost his smile, then nodded and turned to face the door at the rear of the shop, calling, Achmed! In response a muscular young man hurried through the door, sleepily rubbing his eyes and straightening his kaffiyeh. In a rapid exchange of Arabic, the man ordered the youth to lead Ben to the house of Shamir Mahmud. His order wasn’t received graciously.

Maintaining a bland expression, he gave no sign of understanding the ensuing argument, part of which was deliberately insulting to him—probably deliberate, to determine if he understood Arabic.

He could speak their language, and several others, for that matter, but best not to reveal that, since people often treated someone who couldn’t understand them as though they were invisible. More than once, over the years, that particular trick, made the difference between victory and defeat, though, hopefully, this wasn’t such a situation. Showing only the normal curiosity to be expected from one who is the subject of a conversation he cannot comprehend, he watched them for a time, wearing an expression of polite interest, then wandered through the shop, peering into the showcases.

The argument continued for several minutes. The merchant agreed that Ben had arrived earlier than expected but demanded to know what difference it made. The sooner we’re rid of Sulieman the better I’ll like it, seemed to be his feeling on the matter. The younger man argued that bringing him to the house, as requested, wasn’t possible, as there was no assurance of the required person being there. He’d have to verify that first. The merchant finally agreed, and the man called Achmed left. The discussion didn’t bring a feeling of confidence, and he wondered who—between the two of them—served whom.

I’m sorry to be taking so long about this, the storekeeper said apologetically. But we didn’t expect you until tomorrow.

He shrugged. I’m sorry, but I got to Israel early, and thought I’d drop by. Actually, he arrived early to shake things up a bit, and see what effect a little confusion had. That, too, was a useful ploy, as was the guise of a bumbling middle-level government bureaucrat. In line with that role, he pasted on an inoffensive expression and added, I can come back tomorrow, if you like.

The man waved that away. No. We can do this now, but...well, I had to be certain Sulieman is ready to leave. Give us a few moments to make arrangements and I’ll have someone lead you to the house. He stopped speaking for a moment, as though wondering what to do to keep him entertained until the promised guide appeared. Then a slow smile came to his face. He gestured toward the showcase and said, In the meantime, let me show you my wares, so you can bring your wife something beautiful to make her doubly glad you have come home.

Sorry, I’m not married, he said, shaking his head.

No? A pity. A man of your age should have a woman to come home to. I’ve been married for thirty-eight years, and I’m still glad each time I step through the door of my home.

Little he could say in response, and given that his brother would celebrate his fifth anniversary within the week, he moved toward the indicated showcase, deciding to make the trip serve a second purpose, that of supplying the needed present.

Why do you bargain so hard? the merchant complained. I’ve offered the piece at a fair price...one that brings satisfaction to us both.

He shrugged. "Perhaps you have, perhaps not, but this is for someone I don’t particularly like. If it was for my brother, for example, I might want the piece, and so be willing to pay more. He allowed his eyes to wander, as though he had no great desire or interest in obtaining the item. Then, after checking his watch, he contrived to look impatient as he held out a hand in inquiry, asking, So, do you want to sell it or not?"

For a long moment, the man stared. Then he gave a small shrug of resignation and opened the display case, taking the tray to the cash register. Inwardly, he smiled. He’d paid more for the serving plate than he needed to, but not by much. In any case, a good bargaining session would take a lot more lying on both their parts, which might require more time than he had.

How else may I serve you? the man asked as he accepted the money.

Thank you, but I’m fine, Ben told him as he took the box, wishing the operation was complete, and that he was on his way home with Sulieman safely beside him. There were too many loose ends and uncertainties to this project, and having a partner to watch his back would have gone a long way toward raising his comfort level. Unfortunately, his request for additional agents during this phase of the operation had been turned down.

He was trying to guess the professions of the passers-by when he was brought back to the present by noises from the rear of the shop. Restraining an impulse to check his weapon he turned and stepped away from the counter.

Ahh, here we are, the storekeeper said, gesturing toward the source of the noise.

The man who emerged from the curtained doorway wasn’t the one who’d been in the shop before. He was almost Ben’s size. This man was short and slim, with a nose like the blade of a scimitar—more a facial divider than a nose. He hunched forward as he walked, looking as if the weight of his great nose was too much for his upper body to bear. Tar-dark eyes peered out from slitted lids, while the odor of his unwashed body added an indescribable ambiance to the encounter.

The shopkeeper appeared surprised to see him and demanded to know why Achmed had not returned, and who he was. The answer was a shrug, so he tried, Why are you here?

In answer the man motioned to his mouth and shook his head, indicating that he was mute, then produced a slip of paper, which the shopkeeper read, frowning. After a moment he turned back to Ben and switched to English, saying, Follow this man. He’ll guide you to the place you seek. Arrangements have been made to protect you on the way to the airport, should you decide that Sulieman is to accompany you. After that, you are on your own.

He studied the new arrival, deciding on his next move. Caution said the situation had too many potential variables. But he had little choice but to play the hand he’d been dealt. The stakes were too high, so he picked up the box containing the serving tray and motioned his guide toward the rear of the shop. Presumably, they would leave by that door.

The storeowner stopped him with, Sir? A moment, please.

He turned, a look of polite inquiry on his face.

Since you will be going into an area where a stranger might be viewed with suspicion, it would be best if you looked like...well, like someone’s relative, visiting from your country. With a shrug, he added, Your clothing is rather conspicuous.

You’re right, I suppose. Should I change into something else? He could have dressed to blend more easily into the background, but preferred to assume the guise of someone both harmless and a little foolish, on the theory that it is best to have potential enemies underestimate you.

In answer, the man gestured him toward a stool, produced a kaffiyeh, then affixed the cloth, assuming that he had no idea of how to do so. Had he not suggested the change, it would have been necessary for him to suggest doing so, and perhaps produce the kaffiyeh he’d tucked in his jacket pocket—which would have interfered with his appearance of simple-mindedness, and might have cost him his edge.

As they walked, he thought back to the meeting with Hal Spencer that led to his being in Jerusalem.

° ° °

Tell me, Ben, Spencer asked. What do you know about plutonium?

Plutonium? He thought for a moment, then shrugged, wondering what his department-head was up to. Just the usual stuff...that it’s way up near the heavy end of the periodic table, is used for making atomic bombs, and it’ll make you glow in the dark if you get too near it. What’s up?

Spencer looked thoughtful for a long moment, and his voice carried concern as he said, I’m not sure, but it could be trouble. He dug through the papers on his desk and came up with a slim folder bearing the distinctive markings of a high-security document. He held it out, saying, You can look this over when we finish, but to give you an overview, plutonium is a byproduct of fissioning uranium in a reactor. It’s radioactive, and dangerous, but the radiation is of a type that is far more easily shielded than is uranium, and is safe enough that a man could carry a slug of it hidden in his luggage and not be caught by a radiation detector—or die of radiation poisoning. It’s also the best material to use when making a quick and dirty bomb.

That I’ve heard. I assume someone’s gotten their hands on some of the Russian stuff that ended up in one of the new republics after the breakup of the Soviet Union?

So they say. We’ve been hearing rumors to that effect, and I can’t say it’s unexpected, but the latest rumor says they’re assembling something nasty in Israel.

Ouch! He frowned. I suppose I should be glad it’s not here. But Israel, of all places.... That’s bad news, especially if it’s a radically militant organization doing the construction. They won’t threaten or make demands. They’ll use the damn thing where it will kill the most people. Do you have a line on who has it?

I don’t know. What we have is a line on a line, more or less. Spencer drummed his fingers on the desktop, looking unhappy. Pointing to the folder he said, It’s all in there, so look it over carefully. I want you to take over the operation. You have a flair for this kind of thing.

He grunted, but was given no time to say thank you, because Spencer was speaking again.

What happened, is that we’ve received an indirect contact from a man named Sulieman, which could be a first name, a family name, or anything between. Someone you know?

The name evoked no recognition, so he shook his head, prompting Spencer to say, This Sulieman claims to know the what and where of the bomb-building plans, and to be fed up with the killing. He wants to come in from the cold, and move here to the States.

Don’t they all? I suppose he’d like a tidy fortune while he’s at it?

Something like that. Spencer snorted. But if he has something, it’ll be worth it. And that’s where you come in. Find him, hook him, and reel him in. He held up a finger in warning. But that’s where our job ends, Ben, so don’t go charging off to save the world the way you usually do. We’ll let the Israelis go in and get themselves blown up taking the bomb. It is their country, after all.

He smiled. There are those who might argue the point.

So I’ve heard.

So...why not let the Israelis handle the whole thing? They tend to get themselves into a snit when we muck around in their affairs."

The man looked at him as though he’d gone feeble-minded. "Ben, Sulieman claims to be fed up with killing women and children, but that doesn’t mean he likes the Israeli government. Remember, he contacted us, rather than them. Or at least his intermediary did."

But what about Mossad? Do I let them know something’s up? I may have to go over there. In fact, and if you don’t mind, I want to be in on the out-of-office part of this. I’m beginning to get cabin fever from sitting at my desk and looking at nothing but the walls of my office.

A good question, Spencer said with a smile that acknowledged his request to take a more active role than that of director of the operation. You might want to talk to Mossad about it, to smooth the way a bit.

You mean tell them what we’re after?

Of course not, but let them know you’re checking on a plot to blow something up and see whether they can give you anything useful—or at least stay out of your way. You know some of their people, don’t you?

A few, he admitted, blandly. He knew more than a few, and owed his life to the shooting skills of one in particular, but his face showed little that he didn’t want it to show. He also decided not to bring Mossad into the picture until he had something concrete to discuss. That agency tended to be extremely closed-mouthed about providing information without absolute necessity, and he wanted to present what he gave them as a package that would be both useful and engender a debt they’d have to repay, later, with something he needed.

Okay then, Spencer said, letting him know that the meeting was over. The project is yours. Keep me posted, and let me know if you need anything.

He nodded and stood, heading toward the office door. He reached it, and opened the door, but stopped when Spencer called. And, Ben...

Yes?

Keep the damn expense forms a little less creative than last time. The bean-counters are watching everything, lately, and I caught a lot of flack over the last batch you submitted.

He waved a hand to indicate that he heard, then headed for his own office, to see what the report had to say.

° ° °

Now, two months after reading that report he was following an unknown man to an unknown destination to talk to another man who may or may not have something interesting to tell him. Given that such a situation occurred all too frequently in his line of work, He reflected that it was one hell of a job.

° ° ° °

Chapter 2

As they worked their way deeper into the Arab quarter Ben wondered if he’d made a mistake. The stares and whispered conversations that kept pace with their progress weren’t a problem. That was expected, and unimportant. What mattered was the sun. He had no idea of their destination, but wherever it lay, they weren’t taking the most direct path to it. The city was a maze of twisted streets and alleyways that destroyed one’s orientation within minutes, but using the sun’s position as a guide, he was sure they were headed back in the direction from whence they came. The time they were taking, too, had exceeded half the time necessary for the man named Achmed to leave, and this man to arrive at the shop. His arrival a day early had, indeed, shaken things up.

He considered aborting the mission—it would be easy enough to give his guide the slip and head for the city gate—but like it or not, his job was to find out what was going on, and why.

They finally turned off the tiny street they’d been following, entering an even tinier, and more disreputable, alleyway. His defensive instincts went on full alert at that point. As a light-plane pilot notes safe places to land in case of an engine failure, he searched for escape routes, places that would provide cover, and places from which an ambush could be launched.

Senses in high gear, the world seemed a brighter and more colorful place. Trace odors, which had been buried in the general effluvium of the city now called for attention, to be identified and classified in order of importance. Top on that list, as they approached the end of the alley, was the odor of blood, mixed with human urine. Someone had died—close by, and recently.

On cue, his guide turned and pointed to a battered doorway, just ahead, indicating that he should enter—an act of courtesy out of character, given both the man, and the situation. In light of the attitude toward the United States in that part of the city, any act of courtesy towards an American was suspect. In this case, accepting the request to go first would not only place him into the position where he might be entering a hostile room, he’d be doing so with what was probably an armed man behind him.

Playing the role they’d chosen for him, however, he smiled amiably and reached for the door handle. As expected, the man behind him begin to move closer. Taking a step, diagonally to the side, and rear, he pivoted to face the man as he did so. Unfortunately, to defend himself from the knife the man held he needed his hands. But he’d forgotten the gift for his brother. He could drop the tray. That was easy and obvious. Also obvious, however, was that the noise of it hitting the cobbles would alert those inside.

His hesitation solved the problem for him. The man with the knife, trapped in a vulnerable position, thrust the knife toward his chest.

In an instinctive move, he blocked the knife with the box, forcefully enough that the knife penetrated both box and tray, jamming the blade in place. With a twist, he freed the knife from the man’s hand.

Discarding the package and taking the surprised man by the arm, he thrust him against the door, turned the knob, and forced him through the doorway, stepping back and to the side as the man stumbled forward. No way of telling what kind of reception was planned had he entered the way they expected him to, so best to be out of the line of fire.

The reaction to the door slamming against the wall, and the entrance of a man into the room was swift and loud. At least two shots were fired, the noise deafening in the tiny alley. In the instant after the shooting stopped, while those in the building tried to understand what was happening, they were vulnerable. Stooping, he grabbed the package and threw it into the room—a second target to distract and confuse. He followed the package with himself.

Perhaps it would have been better to have fled. But the alley was straight, and long enough that he’d present a good target to anyone with presence of mind to come after him—and, be vulnerable from behind

All those possibilities were reviewed and discarded in the time it took to throw the gift box into the room. Being what he was there was only one viable choice: attack.

As he entered the room he took note of the layout and occupancy: Three men standing, two of them foolishly tracking the path of the box as it bounced off the far wall of the room, the third standing open-mouthed in surprise.

Shouting, Get down it’s a trick, in Arabic, he was pleased to see their faces fill with confusion. Without bothering to draw his gun he launched a kick at the closest gun, ripping it from the hand of its owner and flinging it against the wall, where it discharged with an ear-splitting roar. The second man had the dubious pleasure of having his gun snatched from his hand, to be used as a club, felling him before he understood what kind of monster had entered the room.

The third man followed the action with his eyes, a look of hope appearing on his face. About to neutralize him as a possible threat, he changed his mind. With luck, this was the man who had brought him to Jerusalem, though any information the man might have been going to provide was probably of not much use, now.

The first man, the one who lost his gun to his flashing foot, seeing that he was unarmed, produced a knife from beneath his clothes, holding it awkwardly in his left hand. Ben gave him a look that showed his opinion of that, and the man, after a moment’s thought, dropped the knife and stood waiting, with hate-filled eyes. Almost as an afterthought, he produced his pistol, as a warning for him to stay put.

He turned to the third man, asking, Sulieman?

The man shook his head, pointing to doorway that, presumably, led further into the house. In there...dead. A man I thought trustworthy came to the house and killed him just before you arrived. This is my house.

The man had the appearance of one who has looked death in the face and has lost all hope. He discounted him as an immediate threat, and motioned toward the doorway, mouthing, Any more in the house?

No. Just these two. He was silent for a moment, then, in a voice that contained little hope, said, I don’t suppose you can take me with you...in place of Sulieman? I’m a dead man if I stay here. They only kept me alive because you were expected, and might walk in before they finished. I got the impression that they planned to kill us tonight, but you arrived early, so they had to rush.

He held up a hand in a wait gesture, as he reached into his pocket for a slim plastic tube. He turned to the other man and ordered him to turn around.

I’ll die watching you, asshole, that man snarled. His words had been in English. That brought a smile, because he preferred Arabic for cursing.

With a shrug, he aimed the little device and squeezed the barrel.