Cohen broke his silence. “It was this man; he gave me money.“
“Name?”
“He didn’t say. I swear he didn’t.”
Huntley waved dismissively and turned to leave. Cohen started sobbing.
“I swear I don’t know, I really don’t.”
“How much money?”
“Twenty grand, that’s all. And twenty more when the job was done. Please . . . I work a whole year to make that much money . . . I didn’t see anything wrong with it, really. A screw is a screw . . . they’re not explosive, these screws, I checked. Oh, God . . . I thought it was gonna be OK. What’s a screw gonna do?”
...94
...Tuesday, October 11, 11:43PM Local Time (UTC+2:00 hours)
...IDF 68 Operational Training Camp
...East of Tel Aviv, Israel
It was hard to get Daniel Krumholz tired, but this came pretty close to what he would call squeezed dry. He had just finished an exhausting weeklong training program with the Special Operations Aviation Group. He had managed to catch almost four hours of sleep before a phone call woke him up and recalled him for another assignment. He returned immediately to the Operational Training Camp, this time as an instructor.
He rubbed his forehead in an effort to alleviate his debilitating fatigue and focus on the young agents lined up in front of him in the brisk night air. They deserved better than his exhaustion, no matter how justifiable. He took a deep, sharp breath and focused on his trainees. He saw in their eyes determination, passion, loyalty, and commitment. A good team.
Daniel remembered himself at that stage in life, when he had left his battalion and had chosen to embrace Mossad’s demanding career path. He had never looked back since that day. He had chosen to lead a life of service to his country, continuous, devoted, all-sacrificing service to his native Israel. He was proud of each minute spent doing his duty. This heartfelt choice and his talent as a Mossad operative had brought him recognition and advancement in the ranks of the toughest intelligence agency in the world. The speed and effectiveness he demonstrated in delivering his assigned missions had positioned him to be selected for the ranks of Kidon, Mossad’s elite, ultra-secret group of operatives. Shortly after that, he was leading his own Kidon team. That was a challenging responsibility, considering how the global environment was evolving. The pressure was on all Mossad agents to be at their very best, increase their activity levels, and join the rest of the world in a joint effort to maintain peace and combat terrorism.
His radio came to life, some static preceding the communication.
“Base to Tango 4, Base to Tango 4, do you read?”
He unclipped the radio from his belt.
“Read you clear, Base, go ahead.”
“Base to Tango 4, please confirm position. Over.”
“Base, this is Tango 4. At the kill house, over.”
“Base to Tango 4. Courier en route. Meet at the Barracks in 5, over.”
“Base, this is Tango 4. On my way. Over.”
This was beyond strange. Confirmation of position during a night shooting drill was an unlikely event, and a courier at this hour was completely unheard of. Such things just didn’t happen. Curious about the identity and the urgent message of this unprecedented midnight courier, he started on his way towards the Barracks, code name for the command post mockup.
He needed about three minutes and a half to reach the Barracks; he was good on time. He stopped briefly near a tree, took out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. He didn’t light it though. Although he was safe in the middle of the training camp, he instinctively followed combat rules and preferred to preserve his night vision and stealth instead of lighting up. It was the way he operated; wait in the shadows - unseen, unheard - and be ready.
After a short wait in the complete darkness surrounding the Barracks, two sets of headlights started tearing through the blackness. Two Sand Cat light armored vehicles approached fast, in close formation, wearing no insignia and no distinctive markings. The way the two drivers moved their vehicles on the unfriendly terrain, the way they stopped after sharp turns in opposite directions, to offer each other maximum cover and be able to leave the area on a dime, told Daniel these men were not regular Army. Nope, not even close. Mossad, maybe, or top-notch executive protection. Impressive, Daniel thought. I’d welcome any of these men on my logistics support team.
The passenger of the first vehicle came forward into the low light enough for