The Great Deception Read online

  --

  Odesa, Ukraine: April 20th, 2041--23:00

  The slow-moving swarm of Mossad helicopters were now in missile range of the enemy. Under normal circumstances, the toothless defenses of Odessa wouldn't be too worrisome for the Israeli agents passing through. The Cold War era surface-to-air missile batteries with their even more antiquated radar arrays didn't stand a snowball's chance in heck against stealth choppers. That is, unless they had a little help.

  Seth Markov regulated his own breathing.

  Call it a premonition of sorts; the man had the worst of feelings in his gut. A sinking feeling...which apparently wasn't shared by the rest of the team in the back of the helo. They still played blackjack like there was no tomorrow.

  The grizzled veteran wouldn't rest easy until they were safe and sound, out of harm's way. His muscular lower half tightened, his center of weight balanced on the balls of his feet. If anything were to happen, he'd be ready to jump into action.

  The full range of anxiety attacks kicked in right then. Seth shook his head and winced in pain. It didn't happen often, but when it did it was like film would roll of all the traumatic life and death experiences he had been through.

  ...

  The wind breaking against his face made him feel like he had face-planted into a snow drift and stayed there. At freefall speeds his body hurtled to the ground at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. Djibouti's lights down below shone like galaxy clusters from Seth's point of view. Three other Mossad agents willingly followed Seth Markov out of the plane on the HALO jump. While they were still riding their parachutes to a rough and tumble landing all four of the killing machines racked their submachine guns: locked and loaded ready to strike. Green lasers danced on top of a rooftop. By the time the guards of the president elect of the Islamic republic knew what was happening, it was too late for them. Silent bullets defeated the perimeter defenses of the high-rise compound the target occupied that night.

  That was one mission.

  Bombs going off, guns thundering, the sound bites of death...all were on continuous playback with no stop in the program. Seth's head began to ache.

  The water would have given anyone hypothermia. The delivery vehicle that launched from the Israeli sub stealthily moved into the frigid littoral waters of the Barents Sea off the coast of Russia. Seth's rebreather recycled his carbon dioxide from respiration and returned it to him as usable oxygen. To keep him warm a thermal insulated dry suit protected him from the dangerous potential of a deep freeze from ever occurring.

  Seth and his men slowly raised their heads above the crashing waves and lowered them after deciding the coast was clear. Five frog men as they were known to be called rose from the sea and took to the shore. The force skillfully traversed the terrain. Soon they were packing through the frozen tundra en route to another target.

  Before he knew what was going on his world went sideways. A ringing noise burst his ear drums: they were in the middle of a firefight with Russian KGB agents sent to intercept the Israelis. A grenade had just exploded. How did they know with pinpoint accuracy Seth and his men would be there that day? None of that mattered though. Bullets pinged off the dirt and heather around him.

  Judging by weapons fire, Seth reasoned him and his team were equally matched in number, but not in strength. The enemy didn't know who they were dealing with. They had critically underestimated the superiority in training the Mossad agents possessed. Seth lay on his stomach in the snow and mud. He appeared to be all alone: separated from the friendlies in all the chaos. Losing situational awareness in these situations could have been fatal, but Seth had just the thing for that. Even though the Israelis liked to travel light, clutter-free, they never went on a mission without their ruggedized PDAs. The little handhelds could do everything from maps with their current location on it to a text messaging service.

  Seth took out his gizmo and powered it on. In under ten seconds he had his maps application open. That gave him just enough time before the next wave of attacks started up again. This time he knew where the bullets were coming from. A plan, he needed a plan.

  His thumbs pecked out a message to the other agents. "On my mark I will begin the countdown. After which, I'll return fire...a diversion. I want you to jump from cover and mow them down. Questions?"

  "10 4, " Seth read. He exhaled. Inserting the high capacity mag with caseless ammo took two seconds: counting down took three. His last text to everyone simply said "mark."

  One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand. With a decisive squeeze of the trigger, Seth sent twenty rounds over the ridge he hid behind and in the general direction of the bad guys. The retaliatory response was instantaneous. Bullets bit the dust all around him. All of a sudden he felt a flesh pain, but that was overshadowed by another sound. His team did what they had to do and after it was all over the body count stood at five. All theirs. "Well this op was over before it ever began," one of the agents lamented.

  Into the wormhole again...Seth's brain was like a kaleidoscope of swirling colors. From it emerged this picture:

  An ejected clip hit the floor. He must've called for another mag because one traveled on a trajectory straight for his outstretched gloved hand. Clink, clink, clink went the brass casings as they hit the floor. Bursts of automatic gun fire from muzzles illuminated the space like torches.

  The dark and dank trappings of the building reminded him of a medieval castle. But with a Middle Eastern flair to it.

  They appeared to have the upper hand. The men on Seth's right looked him in the eyes and motioned onward before they advanced, he did the same for the men to his left.

  They scrambled to leave the scene with the men they dropped dead in cold blood. Straight ahead a tunnel connected them closer to their objective. Seth backed up the procession of Mossad agents running through the dark passageway. He kept his gun pointing in the opposite direction which they headed in. The man ahead of him looked up at the ceiling with his iron sight. The two in the front poked a little fiber optic snake camera around the corner.

  "Clear."

  Four black commandos spilled out from the hallway into an open gallery. Obviously it was a place where speeches were made. Islamic flags sat on a stage with a podium taking front and center. If there was one thing the rectangular room lacked, that would be people. Where was everybody?

  It began to fade. No longer did he see men with faces painted black, wearing communications gear, and wielding powerful rifles. He heard familiar noises. Men's voices rose in an excited cadence. "That's twenty-one again!"

  Seth groaned. He had been daydreaming. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing though because the pilots came on the radio to announce they were close to the safe house.

  --

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  "You must be Azriel Markov," a lady with short hair and beak-like nose chirped. The boy nodded.

  "Here's your syllabus and a map of the building," she handed him some papers. He readily took them. Under closer examination, the classes his uncle had enrolled him in were really advanced. Azriel swallowed. "I don't think I can..." he started to say while pointing at his schedule. "Nonsense," she cut him off, "your uncle said you were ready. You're on trial right now, so let's see what you can do. We'll go from there."

  Looks like he didn't have much of a choice. Thanks uncle. Azriel sighed, turned away from the front desk and dragged his feet down the hall.

  There had been another person closely watching the Jewish boy. But he made no attempt at an introduction. His forgettable plain features and limited, background involvement in the enrollment process would go unnoticed by Azriel. And that was precisely the point.

  When the boy was out of sight the stranger pulled a phone out of his pocket and speeddialed a number. "We have the boy." "So he found his way all right?"

  "I assume so."

  "You'll have to do better than that. Report to me often on what you observe.

  You got that?"

  "Of cour
se." With that, he clicked off. A desk awaited him in some obscure corner of the building where he would monitor everything Azriel did, just as directed.

  Bird woman had a look of curiosity wash over. "Rafael? What was that all about?" "Hm? Oh, just a concerned mother calling in to make sure her son wasn't tardy again. His attendance hasn't been good." Likely story. She knew what she heard. But it did no good to question the assistant principal of the school.

  Rafael noticed the grunt's reservations over his cover-up. "Is there something else on your mind Miriam?"

  She gave a little head shake.

  "Good. I'll be in my office if you need anything." He grabbed a mint from the dish by her monitor before he left.

  --

  Barcelona, Spain

  The Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution, or BfV for short, is Germany's internal security department. Its people report directly to the Ministry of the Interior. Which, in this case is Sofia Keller. In years past BfV strictly gathered intelligence and let the police actually go in and round up the suspects.

  There's a new sheriff in town

  Not anymore. After World War III the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution became the new Gestapo over the states Germany assimilated into her control.

  Visits to the satellite states occurred with greater regularity. Sofia Keller accompanied by her henchmen made darn good and sure Spain and others remained loyal to the Fourth Reich. She knew resentment and workarounds faced her wherever her inspection might be on any given day. There were always dissidents. Always. That's why Chancellor Lothar Kirsch had tapped her to join his team. She was the enforcer.

  Enforcers needed to eat though. Officials from the Berlin-elected provisional government of Spain had agreed to talk politics over lunch with Keller. A German restaurant in downtown Barcelona was the chosen site for the proceedings. A pleasant several course meal greased the skids for good talks ahead. Platters of bratwurst, sauerkraut, schnitzel...pitchers of beer, and black forest cake with apple strudel as dessert satisfied even the strongest of appetites.

  …

  Carlos Castell ate his meal undisturbed. He enjoyed eating in the state dining room of the five star Hotel Omm. However the great food and luxurious atmosphere weren't enough to put his mind at ease. Whenever Sofia Keller came calling he always felt guilty as sin. Even if he didn't do anything. She had that effect on the governors.

  Even though Berlin had thoroughly vetted the governors (satraps) that ruled her satellite states, there were still those with divergent allegiances...some that had dealings with anti-government groups. Through chicanery and guile these traitors waited for the right time to give the Judas kiss and betray the Fourth Reich.

  Before today's meeting Carlos practiced with his advisors. Their agenda: think up ways to continue the lie. What Keller didn't need to know, wouldn't hurt her.

  Sofia put her fork down on her chilled plate adorned with chocolate shavings and drizzle. She looked up at Governor Castell with a half-smile. "What did you think of the cake?" "What's not to like," he replied. "I'm a sucker for German desserts."

  Keller nodded. Her eyes danced around the room, absorbing every detail. "This hotel has always been a favorite of mine. I wouldn't stay anywhere else

  in the city...."

  "There's a new chain investing in downtown. Hotel Omm's management is a little worried I hear," Carlos almost whispered while wiping his mouth with his napkin. "Carlos," Keller looked ready to change topics to something more in line with the real reason for the visit, "I wanted to personally thank you for the work you and your people have done to go after groups and militias that are enemies of the state."

  The governor did his best to look placid. Keller was playing games. So he would play along. "We recently conducted a sting operation on some radicals. Our intelligence indicated they were conspiring to take over some weapon depots."

  She didn't give anything away. "You don't say...."

  "Yeah. Frankly, I'm a little concerned about the number of hostiles out there that would like nothing more than chaos and tyranny." Keller agreed. "That's why we must work together as a team. And that's partly why I'm here."

  "I'm afraid I don't follow."

  "It goes something like this--" her hands hovered over her dinner plate like it was an open playbook. "--we need to share information. I'd like to see more transparency from your intelligence officials with the BfV. Do you think you can do that?" "I thought we were doing that," Carlos complained.

  "Not according to these documents." She held them up for everyone to see in a very confrontational manner. "What's that?"

  "Phone records from people in your own counter-terrorism agency, the

  Bureau of Internal Affairs, is it?"

  "Yes, that's us. But what's that got to do with lack of transparency?" "We traced the calls. Several businesses that were on the list have affiliations with known antigovernment parties."

  Carlos blanched. How could this be happening? "Why would my people be contacting those types?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me," her eyes narrowed.

  "Are you saying I'm in cahoots with agents from the BIA against my own government?" "We're checking into it," Keller said very firmly. "In the meantime, I've assigned a team to work closely with your people over the next

  month or so. Consider that your parole, if you will."

  The governor protested. Carlos shot glances at his point man who looked equally shaken by the news. Keller was good, too

  good. "This isn't over," Carlos threatened her.

  "No, I'm afraid it isn't. We'll be in touch." She got up from the table and excused herself. The rest of her security detail went before her.

  Well that couldn't have gone any worse, Carlos thought to himself.

  --

  Westover Ventures, LA

  "Don't you think it would be wise to call ahead to the forward deployed teams?" "Warn them, you mean?"

  "You would want them to do the same for you if that was your ass on the line."

  "You have a point."

  "I know I do! Now get on it!"

  "I hope you're right on this," he muttered as he prepared to ask his commander what to do.

  The other security guard said nothing. Instead, he walked a greater distance away from the guy who noisily chattered with his superiors. If it were his call, he'd release a swarm of drones to do reconnaissance since the scans of the building didn't yield anything. He was almost certain they weren't alone. But he needed something more concrete than a feeling. The intelligence would have to come quick, too, before Scorpion got the drop on unsuspecting Viper agents sent to do a job.

  "Yes sir, roger that."

  Those were the key words. He returned to his partner, took off his helmet and straight up asked what the news was. "They have agreed to send in our Wasp aerial drones."

  "Those are the little insect ones, right?"

  "Yup."

  "Nice work man."

  "Just doing my job," guard number two said. He looked at his vulnerable sidekick who still had his helmet off. "Better get that back on. You're a soft target without it." "The life support systems have been acting a little haywire," guard number one explained. "Is the temperature in your suit climbing?"

  Number one laughed. "Yeah, you could say that."

  "Do I need to get a replacement, or do you think you'll be okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Suit yourself."

  The other guy didn't laugh at the unintentional pun. "Are they gonna send the drones in through the front door? What's the plan...?"

  "The HVAC system, actually."

  "Ah. Makes sense."

  Number one sensed his questions were beginning to burden number two so he decided silence to be the antidote for that.

  ...

  Nine agents got lost in the weapons division of Westover Ventures. Well, not really. They meticulously turned every rock over, looking for anything valuable to grab underneath. Mostly what
they came for were the encrypted schematics buried deep on a hard drive somewhere for an important weapon the FRN desperately needed.

  The weapons division was a rather large building. Over a hundred thousand square feet of dedicated space to testing, prototyping, and offices. Several members of the team were responsible for hacking into the computers and data mining its contents. That would be a long and arduous process when time was of the essence.

  "I think I have something!" one man cried out after ten minutes of searching.