Jaffa, Israel
19:55
Callahan lit a cigarette and offered one to Zach, who shook his head.
He took a long drag, his eyes narrowed, the smoke swirling over his face. “Where were you when all of this was going down?”
“At home. I could coordinate everything from there.”
Callahan nodded and blew some smoke through his nose. “I believe you. But you still haven’t elaborated on how Bryden infiltrated our den. That place was a fortress."
Zach lifted his shoulders. “We always knew the Dizengoff shopping center had underground tunnels, but the plans were lost so we didn’t know its extent or size.”
Callahan paced around the room, his hand on his chin. “Go on.”
“Bruce had been tailing you for a while,” he said, glancing at Callahan. “You entered the clothing store but never came out.”
Callahan nodded. “The shop’s name was Toma. I saw him on the security camera footage. When I confronted him, he told me he was shopping for some chinos.”
Zachary laughed. “Bruce doesn't wear chinos.” Bruce better damn well hurry up; he couldn’t keep this charade going on for much longer.
Zachary continued. “He counted how many people went in and out of the store, and the numbers didn't add up.” He straightened in his chair, trying to let the blood circulate to his hands. ”Seventy-five people entered the shop, but sixty-eight came out. We knew it had to be some secret entrance."
Callahan nodded. “So you caused a diversion.”
“Yes, we broke into the shop above Toma. We opened the taps and flooded your shop.”
“I remember. I had to access our facility through the basement because Toma was underwater. Did Bryden follow me inside?”
Zach nodded.
Callahan fiddled with a cufflink, deep in thought. “How did he get past the security we had in place? We had a guard patrolling the entrance of our complex in the basement parking of the Dizengoff center.”
Zach shrugged. “He created a diversion.”
“And what about the thumb scanner? How did he get past that?”
Zach chuckled. “The thumb scanner had a built-in failover mechanism; it was a piece of crap.”
Callahan looked up. “What failover?”
“You implemented a Korean-manufactured lattice security system, at least three years old. A known weakness of the system was that it is susceptible to heat. The plastic melts and a system override kicks in, automatically opening the doors when it senses temperatures above a hundred and forty degrees.”
“So what, man?” Perreira asked with irritated wave.
Zach sighed. “The product was designed as a clocking system for mines. When a fire occurred, the doors needed to open.”
“How do you know this?” Callahan asked.
“It’s my job to know everything there is to know about securing Mossad HQ. Your system failed my checks.”
Perreira grinned. “Funny you didn’t think about that at your own place.”
Zach glared at him.
“All right, what did you use to get in? A lighter?” Callahan asked.
Zach took a deep breath and continued. “Yes. We simply had to heat the sensors in the corners of the motherboard.”
“So you heated it and the doors opened up?” Callahan asked incredulously.
“Precisely.”
Bruce pointed his gun at the three soldiers. “C’mon then!”
The man on the left lunged at him and was rewarded with a third eye between the other two. Bruce turned towards the second soldier, but the man grabbed the nozzle of his Glock and twisted it around, breaking Bruce’s trigger finger.
The soldier yanked the gun back and easily dislodged it from Bruce’s hand. He released the cartridge, tossed the gun into a corner, and then turned to face Bruce.
Bruce studied the soldier. He was fresh-faced, couldn’t have been older than twenty. He was shorter than Bruce, five-ten he guessed. Broad-shouldered with muscular arms, ranked as a sergeant, the workhorses of the military. The man had numerous tiny cut marks on his forehead and chin. This guy had been in a couple of bare-knuckle fights.
The soldier hunkered forward, hands in front of his face, in a boxer’s stance. Bruce kicked out and landed hard on the soldier’s thigh. He then hammered three blows into the man’s shoulder, and the soldier covered up, the way Bruce knew he would. The sergeant dropped his arms to let the sting out. Lactic acid would build in the arm, rendering it ineffective within a couple of seconds. Bruce shifted his focus to the second man but had to jump back when the sergeant pulled a knife from an ankle holster, rolled towards Bruce, and lashed out at his hip. Bruce shimmied and narrowly avoided being cut.
He twisted and connected the man flush on the chin with his elbow. Not a perfect blow, but it stunned the soldier momentarily. The soldier to his left saw a non-existent opportunity and rained punches onto Bruce.
Wrong move, pal.
Bruce took a couple of glancing blows on his arms, feinted right, and connected with a perfectly-timed knuckle punch to his attacker’s throat. The man’s eyes bulged, and he slumped to the ground, clutching his neck with both hands.
Bruce waved the sergeant forward, trying to shake the pain from his broken finger. They both looked up as Weinstein stumbled into the room.
“Hold it right there, Bryden.” Weinstein pointed a gun at Bruce’s chest.
Bruce slowly lifted his hands. Shit.
Weinstein raised the gun to Bruce’s head and then pointed it to his own.
What the . . .?
Bruce closed his eyes and the shot reverberated through the room.
The sergeant glanced at Bruce in bewilderment and raised his hands in front of his chest. “Look, I want nothing more to do with this.” He jerked his head in Weinstein’s direction. “I took my orders directly from the colonel. The colonel is dead; I’m relieved from my duties.”
Bruce nodded his head and the sergeant spun around, heading towards his injured colleague who was still writhing around on the floor. Weinstein lay in a pool of blood, his feet beneath his bottom, slumped on his side.
“Wait,” Bruce called.
The sergeant stopped and turned around, reluctantly.
“Why did you not use my gun to shoot me? Why aren’t you armed?”
The sergeant strode to a door at the far end of the room and opened it. “This is what we were guarding.”
The door led to an adjacent room. Inside stood an assortment of cardboard boxes and wooden crates packed to the ceiling. “What is it?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Explosives. Ammunition. Land-to-air, air-to-air. Nimrod antitank missiles, Baraks. You name it.”
Bruce whistled.
“A stray bullet could have blown this whole damn city up,” the sergeant said.
Bruce checked his broken index finger. It stood out at a peculiar angle, starting to swell. It throbbed like a bastard. “That was a smart move,” Bruce said, holding his finger in the air.
The man studied Bruce with narrowed eyes. He stood lightly, like he had springs attached to the soles of his feet, ready for any retaliation.
“What’s your name, Sergeant?”
The man relaxed. “Allen, sir. Staff Sergeant Neil Allen.”
Bruce retrieved his gun and magazine clip then pried Weinstein’s gun from his fingers. “Where is Cohen?”
Sergeant Allen waved his thumb, like a hitchhiker. “Down the passage.”