The Infiltrator Read online

  Also by Brad Taylor

  One Rough Man

  All Necessary Force

  Enemy of Mine

  The Widow’s Strike

  The Polaris Protocol

  Days of Rage

  No Fortunate Son

  The Insider Threat

  The Forgotten Soldier

  Ghosts of War

  Ring of Fire

  Operator Down

  Other Taskforce Stories

  The Callsign

  Gut Instinct

  Black Flag

  The Dig

  The Recruit

  The Target

  The Infiltrator

  A Taskforce Story, Featuring an Excerpt from Operator Down

  Brad Taylor

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Brad Taylor

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  DUTTON and the D colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN 9781101984871

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Also by Brad Taylor

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Operator Down

  Dear Reader,

  Usually, these short stories are separated in both time and space from the linear track of my novels, but believe it or not, this one tracks seamlessly. While writing Operator Down, I had a little twist that I wanted to include—namely, that Shoshana and Aaron had gotten married. I get a lot of questions about when Pike and Jennifer are going to go the distance, and I decided to play on that with their alter egos instead. In the book, it’s mentioned only briefly along with an indication that something didn’t go right with the ceremony. As I finished the book, that two-paragraph discussion between Pike and Jennifer kept nagging me. What didn’t go right? What mess could have happened at a simple ceremony? Why did Jennifer say, “I didn’t see you running away from the sound of the guns.” So I decided to write it. The action here happens before the narrative of Operator Down, but you don’t have to read anything else to enjoy it. It’s a stand-alone story in every sense of the word. I hope you enjoy!

  Best regards,

  Brad Taylor

  1

  The light from the door split the room, causing Masoud Ruzami to jerk his head toward it, his pulse elevating. A young couple entered, and he sagged back into his chair. It had been the same reaction for the last three patrons entering, and the tension was beginning to wear on him.

  He checked his watch, seeing it was now seven minutes past the scheduled meeting time. Enough of this. He hadn’t called for the meeting. He was doing a favor—and risking much by simply agreeing to it. He rose to leave, and the door opened one more time. A man wearing an Israeli Border Police uniform entered, glancing around the small shop. His eyes locked with the Jordanian’s, and Masoud slowly sank back into his chair, regretting that he hadn’t left earlier.

  The Israeli stalked over to his table like he owned the place—which, given that the coffee shop was in Jerusalem, was not untrue. He stopped across the small table and said, “I am Ezra Kravitz. Thank you for meeting me. I know it’s a risk for you, but we both want the same thing.”

  Masoud nodded and pointed to the chair across from him, saying, “What do you mean? Why didn’t you do this through the established liaison services?”

  Masoud was a member of the Jerusalem Islamic Waqf, the caretakers of the holy sites of the Temple Mount that included the Dome of the Rock, a site held sacred by both the Jewish and Islamic faiths, and a flashpoint that encapsulated the pressure cooker of the entire quagmire of the Middle East. Funded and controlled by the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, the Waqf had been responsible for the administration of the Temple Mount for generations, while Israel controlled the security. It was a strange arrangement that was constantly tested. Which made Masoud wonder why this meeting was occurring.

  Ezra took a seat, saw the nervousness, and smiled. He said, “No reason to be alarmed. I’m not going to bite.”

  Masoud said, “You can’t blame me for being uneasy. This is highly unorthodox. You are our liaison. Why ask for a meeting here, outside of the Old City? Why not in our office? Or even in your office? We coordinate all the time, especially after the last event.”

  Masoud was referring to the recent murder of border police on the Temple Mount. Two crazed Palestinians had begun spraying fire, killing anyone they could before being cut down. After the fact, a member of the Waqf had been implicated in the smuggling of weapons into the holy facility. Nothing had been proven, but it had definitely raised tensions.

  Ezra said, “That’s exactly why this has to be separate from the official liaison. It has to remain secret.” He leaned forward and said, “We’ve learned there is a new attack planned, and neither Israel nor Jordan needs another headache like we had before.”

  Masoud squinted and said, “If you know of the attack, then find them. Now.”

  “We could. We most definitely could, but we have no proof. We only have suspicion.”

  Masoud scoffed and said, “That’s never stopped you before.”

  “True, but our suspects are Israeli citizens. Palestinians, but not from the West Bank. Arresting them without concrete proof will do nothing but cause more trouble and protests, but catching them in the act will be different. And we want to do this with your help. The help of the Islamic Waqf. We want to set them up and then arrest them. It will solidify our arrangement. Solidify the status quo.”

  Ezra was referring to the agreement that had been in place since the ’67 war, whereby Israel agreed to let Jordan continue to manage the holy sites even after Israel’s seizure of East Jerusalem and the Old City. The arrangement had come under increasing pressure since the latest attack, with many in Israel saying it was outdated and that Israel alone should oversee the sites—something the Arab world vociferously opposed.

  Masoud said, “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to smuggle in the weapons.”

  His cup of tea halfway to his face, Masoud started, then set the cup down, incredulous. Ezra held up a hand and continued, “Wait, it’s not that insane. You get the weapons in, then they come get them. When they do, you call us, and we’ll intercept them. We catch them red-handed, and you get the credit. A successful cooperation between Israeli security and the Islamic Waqf. What better wa
y to show our partnership?”

  Masoud glanced around the room, refusing to meet Ezra’s eyes. Ezra said, “You find this repulsive? Capturing terrorists?”

  Masoud returned to Ezra and said, “No, but I find your methods strange. We should be discussing this with our respective commands. Getting assurances and coordinating.”

  Ezra said, “I mean no offense when I say this, but we don’t believe we can trust the Waqf staff. You were picked for a reason. We trust you.”

  Masoud bristled and said, “There was no proof of Waqf involvement in the last attack. None. Just your paranoid ramblings.”

  Ezra held up his hands again, saying, “I know that, and you know that, but I take orders. I’m just here exploring options. We researched you, and we trust you. When this is done, the Waqf will be heroes.”

  “Why don’t you just do it yourself? You have access to the compound. Why do you need me?”

  “Because I can’t go into the mosque without a reason, and it will cause an uproar no matter what I manufacture. I can’t insert the weapons without a show of force, which will defeat the purpose. And out of the eleven gates to the Temple Mount, I control only one—the one non-Muslims enter. The Waqf still controls all the others.”

  Masoud nodded, glancing out the window at the passersby. What Ezra said was true. He said, “What would you need from me?”

  “Just access to the al Aqsa mosque. We’ll provide the weapons, and you hide them. You tell me where they are, and we set up the terrorists. When they come in, you alert us, and we’ll do the rest.”

  “And I can’t say anything to my men? Nothing to my superiors?”

  Ezra leaned forward, now intense. “No. I cannot stress this point enough. You can say nothing to anyone else. If you feel you must, tell me now, and I’ll go back to my command.”

  Masoud nodded, toying with his cup. He said, “When do you need an answer?”

  Ezra smiled and said, “Soon. By tomorrow at the latest.” He passed across an old flip phone and said, “You can call me on this. My number is the only one in the contact list.”

  Masoud took it, saying nothing. Ezra stood and said, “We appreciate this. I know it’s a risk, but the status quo must remain. This arrest will do much to bridge the divide we find ourselves in.”

  The words were powerful to Masoud, because he actually believed them. He hated the conflict over the holy sites, and especially hated the suspicions surrounding the members of the Islamic Waqf. Something about Ezra was off, but he attributed that to his distrust of every Israeli security man. The conversation was compelling, and he wanted to believe that Ezra truly desired to help bridge the divide between Arab and Israeli.

  He should have paid attention to his instincts.

  2

  Ezra left the restaurant, telling Masoud to wait ten minutes before he followed. He walked to his car, reflecting on the meeting. It was true Ezra had studied Masoud, but not in the way the Jordanian thought. In his position as liaison for the border police, he had access to a majority of the files the Shin Bet kept on the Waqf and had searched for a member he could manipulate. Someone who wasn’t brainwashed by the Palestinian propaganda machine. A man who truly wanted to cross the void of venom and ease the tripwire tension surrounding the Temple Mount. He’d found that man in Masoud. And now he would use that noble emotion to do exactly the opposite.

  He pulled away, driving toward the Old City. Checking his watch, Ezra saw he was running out of time to make his next meeting, and he still had some preparation to do. He entered King David Boulevard, drove for close to a mile, then wound down a narrow one-way alley, stone and brick houses to his left and right. He parked next to a rubbish bin, grabbed a small satchel of clothing, put on a pair of thin leather gloves, and unlocked a safe house he’d rented earlier. The stop would make him late, but he couldn’t conduct his next meeting wearing a border patrol uniform.

  He went inside and rapidly changed into civilian clothes, leaving his uniform on the floor. He looked in a mirror, pleased with the transformation. He could pass as a Palestinian.

  Before becoming a liaison with the Waqf, as a uniformed member of the border police, Ezra had served in the Yamas, the border police’s secretive undercover unit that was assigned to Shin Bet, the internal security arm of the state of Israel. With close-cropped black hair, olive skin, and an ability to speak unaccented Arabic like a local, he had conducted many, many deep-cover operations against terrorists in the West Bank. And now he would ply that skill one more time.

  He left the safe house at a trot, ripping off the gloves and getting in the car. Traveling back north on King David, he took a right on Yitzhak Kariv Street toward the Jaffa Gate of the Old City. He turned into a parking garage next to the gate, passing by the rows of tour buses patiently waiting. Pulling into a slot, he exited the car, locked the doors, and bounded up the stairs, ignoring the throngs of tourists from all over the world. Sliding through the Jaffa Gate, he melded into the crowds to prevent the border patrol police from recognizing him—and possibly reporting the strange fact that he was dressed as a Palestinian civilian.

  He walked rapidly through the Christian Quarter, entering the Muslim section of the city, the history of the place lost on him just as it was on the myriad others who worked inside the walls on a daily basis. Like a cast member at Disney World, he was no longer inspired by the surroundings . The only part of the Old City that he revered was the Temple Mount, the focus of his mission. Like many others, he was enraged that those of the Jewish faith were forbidden from worshiping on its grounds. It was the holiest site in all of Judaism, and they weren’t even allowed to pray there—but the Arabs could run amok freely. East Jerusalem was Israeli land, and yet the Arabs controlled the most important part of it. It was something he intended to change.

  He walked down an alley until he reached a T-intersection with the famed Via Dolorosa—the Way of Suffering—which delineated the last march of Jesus Christ before his crucifixion. He went right on the ancient road, deeper into the Muslim section, until he reached a small shop proclaiming it was a dealer of antiquities, a simple wooden sign above the door reading, HOLY LAND ARTIFACTS.

  He entered the narrow foyer and saw a Palestinian boy of about sixteen behind the register, the walls surrounding him adorned with coins and vases from ancient times.

  In English, the boy said, “Hello! Welcome to our store. What can I help you find?”

  In Arabic, Ezra said, “Assalam alaikum. I’m looking for Dawood Baidun.”

  The boy hesitated, then responded, “Alaikum salaam. I’m Abdul Haq, his brother. Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes.”

  The boy disappeared into the back, and when he returned, he was with Dawood, a tall Palestinian with a wisp of a beard, just cresting into adulthood at the age of nineteen or twenty.

  Dawood took one look at him and said, “Abdul, keep watching the front of the store. Tell me if anyone else enters.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it. And I mean anyone.”

  Abdul nodded, confused, and Dawood waved Ezra to the back of the store.

  Like everything else Ezra did in his professional life, he’d researched Dawood, the end result of a search for a pliable Palestinian who had a crack in his armor he could lever. Dawood’s father worked in the selling of antiquities from the biblical holy lands and was licensed by the state of Israel to do so. Unfortunately for him, others in his trade had decided that legal antiquities weren’t paying the bills and had started selling artifacts that most definitely weren’t allowed.

  Most nation-states reserved all artifacts as the provenance of the state in question, but Israel was different. It allowed the trade of ancient finds—and the world sucked them up in a voracious vacuum of buyers. The trading was tightly controlled, with rules and regulations that harshly proscribed what and when something could be sold, and last month the Antiquities Aut
hority had conducted a major crackdown, executing a sting operation of some of the more prominent dealers. Dawood’s store had not been implicated, but it had taken little effort on Ezra’s part to drag the father into the investigation, bringing stress on the family.

  Stress Ezra would now use.

  Dawood’s family were of Palestinian heritage, but unlike the majority in the West Bank, they were Israeli citizens, which Ezra knew caused Dawood cognitive dissonance. Was he Palestinian? Or Israeli? All it took was a little pressure to get him to choose a side.

  Dawood closed the door and said, “You’re late. I was beginning to worry.”

  “I got held up at the other meeting.”

  “Did you do it? Can we proceed?”

  Dawood believed Ezra was a member of a radical Israeli Arab group called the Islamic Movement in Israel. Once a political organization, it had split in two, with the so-called southern branch still trying to use political influence and the northern branch eschewing peaceful means. Ezra knew the northern branch well, having infiltrated it and arrested many of its members during undercover stings, and was confident he could seamlessly portray being a member.

  He said, “Yes, our contact with the Waqf was amenable. He can smuggle in the weapons, but I won’t let him unless you have the men. How did your meeting go?”

  Dawood clenched his jaw and said, “They are ready. Five men. Enough.”

  “Are they prepared to die? Because that’s what’s going to happen.”

  “Yes, they are. They look forward to it, but I’m not so sure this will accomplish anything.”

  Ezra leaned forward and said, “You saw what happened to your father. Even as an Israeli citizen, you’re second-class. Do you think if he was a Jew that arrest would have happened? How many antiquities dealers are in the Old City? And they only arrested Arab ones? Your father wasn’t even involved.”

  Dawood nodded and said, “I understand the inequities. I live with it daily. I’m just not sure the attack you envision will bring about justice.”