and being accepted to an elite Special Forces unit known as Sayeret Shimshon—or Samson—tasked with clandestine penetration of the Gaza Strip, the hardest counterterrorist missions in the IDF.
He’d learned to blend in as a Palestinian Arab. Learned to harness his fear while walking in the belly of the beast, to succeed against all odds, locating and eliminating terrorists in their own backyard. He’d lived through many missions that he would have considered suicidal before, and had had the art of the impossible hammered into him.
In 1994, right about the time he’d begun to grow comfortable with the mission, the Gaza Strip had been given back to the Palestinians, and because of it, his unit had been disbanded. For about a day.
Before Aaron could even wonder what he would do next, the Mossad had called, wanting Samson’s skills and promising future missions.
Now the commander of the unit, he’d made a deal with the devil and found his team doing more Mossad tasks than manhunting. A necessary evil to keep the support. He, as the Samson commander, was not immune, which was why he was in Bulgaria attempting to glean intelligence on Syrian intentions.
Aaron turned a narrow corner and saw the cobblestone run up to the ruins at the top of the hill. To the right was a smattering of picnic tables perched on an overlook two hundred meters above the town.
Must be the place.
He went down the steps, purchased a bottle of Kamenitza beer, then casually surveyed the deck. Full of students and backpackers, he focused on singletons and found his contact fairly quickly. A large, overweight man of about sixty-five or seventy, he was sitting at the very edge of the overlook, next to a small trail leading precipitously down. He had a porkpie hat on the table to his front, and a tourist map laid out. The map was the identifying bona fide, and the hat was the safe signal. Had he been wearing it, Aaron would have taken his beer elsewhere and simply reported back, letting his higher command in Mossad reinitiate contact and determine what had gone wrong.
Aaron took one more look around the deck, checking for anything out of the ordinary, once again searching for singletons who didn’t fit in. He found none, but that didn’t mean there was no threat. Just that if there
was
a threat, it was well trained.
He approached the man known as Boris and said, “Sure is pretty up here.”
The man said, “It is, but I prefer Moscow. Have you been there?”
Aaron sat down opposite of him and said, “No, but I’ve always wanted to go.”
The correct words exchanged, with both men satisfied they were talking to the correct person, Boris wasted no more time.
“Did you bring the money?”
“Yes. Well, I brought a card and a PIN. You can draw the money from any ATM or bank, but the card won’t be activated until I get what I came for.”
“How do I know you aren’t tricking me?”
Aaron smiled and said, “How do I know you have any information that’s worth a shit?”
Boris said, “The Americans thought it was good. They have paid me handsomely.”
“You’ve already sold this to the CIA?”
“Yes. Perhaps you’d like to wait on them to pass it to you.” Boris smiled again.
“What am I buying?”
“Have you heard about Edward Snowden?”
“The American traitor? The one who gave all the secrets to you people? Is that what this is about?”
“No, no, I just mean are you aware of the large cache of documents he stole from the American National Security Agency? I am like him. I have a treasure trove of documents, from the KGB’s help of terrorists against your state in the 1970s to what they’re planning to do today. Russia is worse now than it was under the USSR, and the KGB is alive and well in the FSB.”
Aaron knew that Boris was prior KGB himself, and understood that he—like many, many KGB agents—had made a fortune plying his skills for less-than-savory individuals before returning to the new federal security
He’d learned to blend in as a Palestinian Arab. Learned to harness his fear while walking in the belly of the beast, to succeed against all odds, locating and eliminating terrorists in their own backyard. He’d lived through many missions that he would have considered suicidal before, and had had the art of the impossible hammered into him.
In 1994, right about the time he’d begun to grow comfortable with the mission, the Gaza Strip had been given back to the Palestinians, and because of it, his unit had been disbanded. For about a day.
Before Aaron could even wonder what he would do next, the Mossad had called, wanting Samson’s skills and promising future missions.
Now the commander of the unit, he’d made a deal with the devil and found his team doing more Mossad tasks than manhunting. A necessary evil to keep the support. He, as the Samson commander, was not immune, which was why he was in Bulgaria attempting to glean intelligence on Syrian intentions.
Aaron turned a narrow corner and saw the cobblestone run up to the ruins at the top of the hill. To the right was a smattering of picnic tables perched on an overlook two hundred meters above the town.
Must be the place.
He went down the steps, purchased a bottle of Kamenitza beer, then casually surveyed the deck. Full of students and backpackers, he focused on singletons and found his contact fairly quickly. A large, overweight man of about sixty-five or seventy, he was sitting at the very edge of the overlook, next to a small trail leading precipitously down. He had a porkpie hat on the table to his front, and a tourist map laid out. The map was the identifying bona fide, and the hat was the safe signal. Had he been wearing it, Aaron would have taken his beer elsewhere and simply reported back, letting his higher command in Mossad reinitiate contact and determine what had gone wrong.
Aaron took one more look around the deck, checking for anything out of the ordinary, once again searching for singletons who didn’t fit in. He found none, but that didn’t mean there was no threat. Just that if there
was
a threat, it was well trained.
He approached the man known as Boris and said, “Sure is pretty up here.”
The man said, “It is, but I prefer Moscow. Have you been there?”
Aaron sat down opposite of him and said, “No, but I’ve always wanted to go.”
The correct words exchanged, with both men satisfied they were talking to the correct person, Boris wasted no more time.
“Did you bring the money?”
“Yes. Well, I brought a card and a PIN. You can draw the money from any ATM or bank, but the card won’t be activated until I get what I came for.”
“How do I know you aren’t tricking me?”
Aaron smiled and said, “How do I know you have any information that’s worth a shit?”
Boris said, “The Americans thought it was good. They have paid me handsomely.”
“You’ve already sold this to the CIA?”
“Yes. Perhaps you’d like to wait on them to pass it to you.” Boris smiled again.
“What am I buying?”
“Have you heard about Edward Snowden?”
“The American traitor? The one who gave all the secrets to you people? Is that what this is about?”
“No, no, I just mean are you aware of the large cache of documents he stole from the American National Security Agency? I am like him. I have a treasure trove of documents, from the KGB’s help of terrorists against your state in the 1970s to what they’re planning to do today. Russia is worse now than it was under the USSR, and the KGB is alive and well in the FSB.”
Aaron knew that Boris was prior KGB himself, and understood that he—like many, many KGB agents—had made a fortune plying his skills for less-than-savory individuals before returning to the new federal security
Similar Books
