Authors: David Hagberg
Countdown (10 page)
THE SOVIET UNION MAINTAINED no embassy in Israel, although they had been one of the first nations to recognize Israel's legitimacy as a state in 1948. Instead, their affairs were looked after by the Soviet Interests Section of the Hungarian Embassy, a situation that was starting to come apart.
For the past seventy-two hours, telephone calls in and out of the embassy had been closely monitored from the King David Hotel a block away. It was early afternoon. The other technicians were taking a break.
Abraham Liebowitz, headphones on his ears, looked up as the tape recorder automatically came on. “It's him again,” he said.
Lev Potok had been gazing out the window of their seventh-floor suite, thinking about Lorraine Abbott and her meddling. He turned and hurried over to Liebowitz, taking the headphones from him.
“ ⦠June thirtieth, yes I understand,” the same voice as before was saying. He spoke English with a Russian accent.
“It is vital now that a very close watch be kept, you understand this?”
“Yes.”
“We are to be advised of any unusual activity in or around the target facility. Of course you can well understand the need to keep our ⦠friend advised of such happenings.”
“Yes,” the Russian said.
Potok glanced down at the tape machine. The call was outgoing from the embassy. The man giving the instructions was obviously Hungarian. He was at the embassy, the other one was somewhere within the city.
Liebowitz was on the other telephone speaking with their technician at the telephone exchange. He looked up. “We have the first three digits,” he said. “They are the same as before.”
Potok nodded. They had picked up half a dozen calls like this one from the embassy to the same voice. So far, however, the calls had been as brief as they had been enigmatic, allowing the telephone people to trace only the first two or three digits of the number being called.
“Now more than before this has become an extremely important project to him,” the Hungarian said. “Especially after our German failure.”
“Yes, I understand this. Everything will be as you ask,” the Russian said.
Potok held the earphones tighter. What German failure? he wondered. And what was the significance of the date in June? That was barely two weeks away.
Liebowitz held up four fingers. The telephone system within Israel used only six digits. They were close now.
“If something comes up you will use the normal contact
procedures unless it is an emergency, and then you know what to do.”
procedures unless it is an emergency, and then you know what to do.”
“Certainly,” the Russian said. “But there may be others involved now, so we must be very careful.”
“We're well aware of the delicacy, just you be aware of the importance.”
Liebowitz held up five fingers. He was grinning.
“Enough,” the Russian said. “I will hang up now. But it is you who must keep me advised of any changes.”
Hold on, Potok said to himself.
“You forget yourself ⦔ the embassy speaker said, but the other one interrupted him.
“Don't tell me my job. If there hadn't been a failure we would be finished here. Don't forget your position.” The connection was broken.
“Damn,” Potok swore, yanking the earphones off his head, but Liebowitz was smiling triumphantly, and holding up six fingers.
“We've got the sonofabitch,” he said. He turned back to the telephone. “Yes, go ahead,” he said. He quickly scribbled an address on a pad of paper. “We owe you guys a dinner,” he said. “A big dinner.” He hung up, ripping the paper off the pad and handing it to Potok.
“It's an apartment on King David Street not two blocks from here! Second floor in the rear!”
Potok grabbed his jacket, tore out of the room, and was halfway down the corridor by the time Liebowitz came running after him. The elevator was on the ground floor so they took the stairs, pounding down them two at a time.
On the ground floor they turned right and raced out to the rear parking lot.
“Drive,” Potok ordered, jumping in on the passenger side. He yanked the radio handset from its hook as Liebowitz got in behind the wheel, started the engine, and peeled rubber out of the parking lot.
“Central, this is Cold Shoulder Operation, we need a backup immediately,” Potok radioed. He read the address off the paper.
“We'll have someone there within ten minutes,” the radio
dispatcher at Mossad's communications center on Hamara Street in Tel Aviv said. They would probably be sending either local civil police or possibly someone from Knesset Security, but it didn't matter. Potok wanted backup in case something went wrong.
dispatcher at Mossad's communications center on Hamara Street in Tel Aviv said. They would probably be sending either local civil police or possibly someone from Knesset Security, but it didn't matter. Potok wanted backup in case something went wrong.
“We're going in first, so tell them to watch out for us,” Potok shouted.
“Will do.”
Traffic was heavy, nevertheless it took Liebowitz just under two minutes to make it to the apartment building where he screeched to a halt half up on the sidewalk.
Potok pulled out his gun and entered the building, Liebowitz, his gun drawn, right behind him. An old woman had come out of her ground-floor apartment.
“Get back,” Potok warned as he headed up the stairs.
The woman, startled, stumbled back into her apartment and slammed the door.
Another door slammed upstairs and someone came running down the hall.
“Watch out,” Potok shouted as he lurched left, flattening himself against the cracked, dirty plaster wall.
Two shots were fired from above, the bullets smacking into the wall just above Liebowitz's head.
Potok shoved forward and fired three shots in rapid succession. A car horn honked out on the street and someone shouted something from below, and then the apartment building fell silent.
“You can either throw down your gun right now, or come out of here feet first,” Potok shouted. “But you're not getting away.”
He glanced back at Liebowitz crouched below him on the stairs. After a moment he nodded, and girding himself leapt up the last few steps into the narrow corridor.
A figure of a man was just disappearing around the corner at the end of the hall when Potok snapped off a shot, the bullet hitting the man in the back of his left leg just behind his knee. He cried out and crashed to the floor.
Potok rushed forward and coming around the corner he
dropped into a shooter's stance, both hands on his pistol trained on the center of the man's forehead.
dropped into a shooter's stance, both hands on his pistol trained on the center of the man's forehead.
The Russian was short and squat with thick dark hair and narrow pig's eyes. With one hand he was holding his leg, in the other was a big pistol. He was looking up at Potok, a thin sneer on his lips. He started to raise his pistol.
“Is it worth it, Comrade?” Potok said evenly.
Liebowitz was just off his left shoulder. In the distance they could hear a lot of sirens. The Russian's eyes flicked to him, and after a tense moment he shook his head and slumped back, letting the gun slip from his hand.
Potok stepped forward and gingerly kicked the gun out of the Russian's reach.
“Call an ambulance,” he told Liebowitz. “But keep everyone else out of here. We don't want to disturb any evidence of this one's drug dealings, do we?”
It was late evening and in the past three hours they had made very little progress.
The bullet had been removed from the Russian's leg, his wound patched up, and he had been taken immediately to the military side of Lod Airport outside of Tel Aviv. AMAN, Israel's Military Intelligence Service, had of course agreed to cooperate with the Mossad and had lent the use of one of the prisoner interrogation units. The building was off on its own and absolutely secure.
A search of the apartment had turned up nothing more than the Russian's forged Israeli passport under the name of Norman Katz. But Mossad files across town had come up with his photograph and a brief dossier identifying him as Viktor Nikolaievich Voronsky, a minor KGB legman who had last been spotted working in Damascus. He had apparently disappeared from view six months ago, but he had been considered of such minor importance that no search had been made for him.
Voronsky sat in an ordinary wooden chair across the table from Liebowitz. He had been given no drugs for his wound, and it was evident on his face that he was in considerable pain.
Potok leaned against the door on the opposite side of the small smoke-filled room. So far they had not revealed the fact that they knew Voronsky's real name, or that they had been monitoring his telephone conversations for the past three days.
“Just your name,” Liebowitz started again patiently.
“I've told you a hundred times, you bastards, my name is ⦔
“Voronsky,” Potok interrupted from where he stood.
The Russian's head snapped up, his eyes opening wide for just a moment, but then narrowing. He shrugged and sat back in his chair.
“So, fuck you,”
he said in Russian.
he said in Russian.
“And your mother,”
Potok replied in the same language.
Potok replied in the same language.
Again surprise showed on Voronsky's face.
Potok came forward, pulling the extra chair around so that he could straddle it, his arms draped over the back. “Viktor Nikolaievich, you are in very deep shit at this moment. But I suppose you know that.”
Voronsky shrugged. “Deport me.”
Potok smiled. “Oh, no, Niki, it is not going to be that easy, unless of course you wish to cooperate with us.”
“I'm a spy, if that's what you want. I will be exchanged within thirty days in any event. We have a number of your friends rotting at this moment in Damascus. You can't believe the conditions ⦔
Potok smiled gently again. It stopped the Russian. “Ah, but you should ask some of your PLO terrorist friends what our internment camps are like.”
The Russian looked to Liebowitz. “I demand to speak to someone from my interest section in the Hungarian Embassy,” he said.
Liebowitz spread his hands. “Seems to me that you've already done enough talking with them, Comrade Voronsky.”
“What are you talking about? What is this?”
“We're gangsters, Niki,” Potok said. “Isn't that what you've been calling us for the past ten years or so?”
“Then I demand to speak with your supervisor. I want these proceedings recorded.” Voronsky glanced at the tape recorder set up on the table.
“Just a few questions,” Potok said. He nodded at Liebowitz who switched on the tape machine.
“ ⦠June thirtieth, yes I understand,”
Voronsky's voice came from the speaker.
Voronsky's voice came from the speaker.
Liebowitz reached out and switched off the machine.
“Let's begin with that date, Niki. June thirtieth. What is going to happen on that day? Something very bad for Israel?”
Voronsky reared back as if he had been slapped, the sudden movement hurting his leg, and he nearly cried out in pain. “Sonofabitch ⦠I demand my rights.”
“What rights?”
“Under Israeli and international law ⦔
Potok was shaking his head. “Israeli law applies only to Israeli citizens. Not you, Niki. And we do not recognize your so-called international law. But then neither do you. Here you are completely beyond any law. June thirtieth.”
Voronsky shook his head.
Liebowitz shifted the tape forward.
“ ⦠advised of any unusual activity in or around the target facility.”
“The target, Niki, is it going to be attacked on June thirtieth? Is that it?” Potok asked. He nodded for Liebowitz again.
“ ⦠Now more than before this has become an extremely important project to him. Especially after our German failure.”
“Who is this man spoken of, Niki? And what German failure? What happened in Germany?”
Voronsky was still shaking his head.
Potok got up from his chair, withdrew his pistol, cocked the hammer, and, before Voronsky could move, jammed the barrel into the side of the Russian's head. Liebowitz jumped up and tried to stop him. It was part of the routine.
“Nyet,”
the Russian cried.
the Russian cried.
“Talk to us, Niki. It is all we ask.”
“Lev,” Liebowitz said urgently.
“If you don't want to watch, then get the hell out of here,
but I'm going to blow this bastard's brains all over this cell unless he talks to me.”
but I'm going to blow this bastard's brains all over this cell unless he talks to me.”
“Lev!” Liebowitz said again, pulling Potok aside. “Outside. Now.”
There was something in Liebowitz's tone, in the expression on his face, that penetrated. Potok stepped back, and nodded. Something was wrong. It wasn't part of the script.
Outside the cell, the door closed, Liebowitz was shaking. “The German failure they talked about. I know what it is.”
“Yes?”
“It was on the news, for God's sake. But it didn't mean anything to me until just now. I swear ⦔
“What?”
“The terrorists at Ramstein Air Force Base. They stole a Pershing missile. Set it up downtown.”
Potok suddenly did see it all, and he could feel the blood draining from his face. “En Gedi?”
“Yes,” Liebowitz said. “They know! The bastards know, and they're going to try again ⦔
There was a tremendous crash and the sounds of something breaking from within the cell.
Potok clawed the door open in time to see that Voronsky had smashed the tape recorder on the floor and had a long, jagged shard of plastic casing in his right hand.
“No,” Potok shouted, leaping forward, but he was too late.
Voronsky in a last desperate act drew the edge of the plastic shard across his neck, once, twice, a third time, blood spurting everywhere as he sliced through major arteries, and his breath suddenly giving a big slobbering gurgle as he actually managed to cut through his windpipe.
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