Agent on a Mission Read online

  The woman was Korean and her name was Modang. She lay almost completely still for hours and listened to everything going on around her, taking care to keep her eyes shut and not even open one of them even when she thought there was no one around. Her vast experience led her to be extremely cautious. She assumed she was being observed by surveillance cameras and that hidden eyes were watching her. Modang was certain that her Shuriken or ‘killing star’ that was always in her gloves, was now in the hands of her captors and her hands felt as naked as she did without them. She wore those gloves almost every day, relied on them for her defense, to prevent leaving fingerprints and protect her secrecy and anonymity.

  She lay like that with her eyes closed, planning her next steps, and waiting for the surveillance to ease and for the dark of night. The complacency of her captors would be her best friend.

  Modang listened to every murmur, but aside from the monotonous sound of the respirator echoing close by, she heard nothing. She allowed her dark eyelashes to part slightly, but she was unable to register anything more than the surrounding darkness and a blotch of light from the corridor.

  With very delicate movements she pulled the IV needle out of the back of her hand, quietly pulled her clothes, which were folded near her bed, towards her and got up. She put on her blouse and put her legs into her torn skirt. She had no change of clothes. Now, she walked very quietly like a cat on its soft paws, walking with her back pressed close to the walls as she fumbled for her shoes.

  Shuffling footsteps were heard. She froze and waited for them to pass. She could hear them moving to the right down the corridor. When she reached the door, she looked in all directions, waited a few seconds and went out. She walked calmly in the opposite direction of the dragging footsteps, and out of the department. The corridor was illuminated by a lamp at the nurse’s station. A nurse sat dozing at the station and only her cap was visible. Modang passed by her, reached the double doors of the entrance and pushed them open to the sudden cool that chilled her face. She went down the large steps easily, taking care not to touch the handrail and went out of the huge building into the paved courtyard. The place was jammed with people and traffic.

  She was hungry and her stomach rumbled, but she paid no attention to it. Food was the last thing that interested her. She had been trained to manage in any place and situation and had served in her nation’s secret service for years. Modang, who was thirty-three years old, was born in North Korea and knew that her family, her parents and only brother, were assured of special care and attention for the rest of their lives because of her.

  Yesterday was the first time she had failed so miserably. She thought how lucky she had been not to have any identifying documents on her person but she had no need of them. An electronic chip had been injected into the back of her neck, just like an animal, with its owner’s contact details. Modang knew that her life was worthless and she was certain that no one would give a damn if she died. She even doubted that anyone would inform her family if she did.

  Her parents had grown accustomed to infrequent contact with her. She didn’t miss them and didn’t know if they missed her. They never asked after her and took no interest in her nor did they ever thank her for anything. The truth of it was that she also didn’t expect it of them. No one knew what work she did, she never told them and they never asked.

  Nothing ever caused Modang concern. She never complained because she knew that her situation and that of her family was better than most of her countrymen. All that she recalled of her childhood and adolescence were conditions of hardship and days of hunger, so what if she felt hungry now? It was nothing!

  In recent weeks a message had been transmitted to Modang instructing her to make Abigail tell her about her role in the Mossad and then kill her. Just like that. The matter ran into trouble because her dispatchers had transmitted the instructions too early. They knew of Abigail’s pending job even before Abigail herself was called out of her sleeper status by the ‘Mossad’. Modang was put in touch with Shimon, the police officer, to get information about Abigail and, through him, get access to her apartment. The meeting that Shimon arranged with Abigail’s sister did not take Latifah’s Bedouin temperament into account and she was forced to kill her in order not to be discovered. Everything had gone wrong.

  A week earlier she had left a note for Abigail and planned to kill her, but failed at that, too. Matters had gotten completely out of hand and had not turned out according to her plan.

  The recent failures had stung Modang’s spirit, but she did not try to make contact with her dispatchers. Clearly the information had reached them and she understood that her fate was sealed.

  * * *

  Anton walked towards Abigail in the courthouse corridor. He raised his arm in greeting and appeared happy to meet her, but as she drew closer she saw how serious his eyes were and felt the small piece of paper that was pushed into her hand. He responded so quietly to her questioning glance that she could barely understand:

  “Destroy it when you finish reading it,” and continued on his way.

  TOMORROW AT 11:00 PM. 10 MEITAR STREET, RAMAT GAN.

  COME ALONE.

  She immediately glanced back in the direction the Judge had gone but he was no longer there. She rolled the note up into a little ball and put it in her pocket, in spite of the instruction to destroy it.

  Now, Abigail stood on Meitar Street in Ramat Gan and looked at the house at number 10. She vaguely recalled the meeting that was held there several years earlier and tried to remember which floor the apartment was on when she noticed that only one apartment was still illuminated.

  She had arrived a few minutes earlier and had parked her car nearby on Gilgal Street and walked here. Now, she leaned her back against the hedge that surrounded the house at number 7.

  From time to time a car passed and the street was quiet. She took a breath of air and made her way to the house at number 10 and peeped into the darkened yard. She hesitated at the entrance to the building but, then, one of the doors opened and when she heard a voice calling her name, she understood they were waiting for her and had noticed her.

  As she entered the apartment, Abigail tensed up. The short harmless meeting she had attended there years earlier did not leave her feeling at ease. She felt as though dozens of pairs of eyes were following her and she shuddered.

  Abigail glanced briefly around her and sat down on the chair that was offered her. Small boxes were arranged on the walls along the line where they met the ceiling and Barak noticed her looking at them.

  Those are loudspeakers connected to the net and we listen to good music on them, like this,” he turned a knob on some electronic equipment behind him and pleasant music poured into the room. She found the music enjoyable and moved to it as she spoke:

  “That’s the Hungarian Rhapsody No. 5 by Liszt”

  “Would you like to listen to it in the background?” and Abigail closed her eyes and listened.

  “Tea or coffee?” San asked.

  Abigail shook her head to refuse and without opening her eyes, said:

  “Perhaps later, thank you. I just drank.”

  There was another minute’s silence and Abigail straightened up in her chair and looked at Barak and San. They sat opposite her on the blue leather sofa and she smiled to herself when she thought how she felt she was being interviewed for a job. San began speaking without opening remarks.

  “We want to interest you in something.”

  “Hmm…” she responded.

  “Not just anyone is invited here to receive an offer from us.”

  He peered at her over his silver-framed glasses. His slanted eyes were evidence that someone in his family was from the Far East. Still fresh in her memory, the small black-gloved woman appeared in her mind’s eye and she smiled to herself without paying attention.

  It was as if they could read her thoughts because Barak said:

  “You did well against that Korean woman.”

  “K
orean?” she repeated like an echo.

  “Yes, Korean, to be more precise, North Korean. Her name is Modang.”

  Abigail was certain she had gotten away from the battle in time, so she pretended innocence and asked them:

  “What Korean are you talking about?”

  Barak threw a glance at San, who nodded his head very slightly. He had received secret approval to continue to stage two.

  “Abigail, or should I call you Naima?” he said as he leaned in her direction. She knew that they were waiting for a reaction from her but she had decided to let it slide because it was clear to her that every detail of her life had been examined. She also hadn’t bought the story she had been told about the system of tiny speakers in the room. Abigail was convinced that everything happening in that room was being recorded and filmed so she decided to censor her every word and movement.

  “Why am I here?” she asked.

  Barak spoke. “I’ll be frank with you. You can see that you are under surveillance. We won’t be telling you anything new if we remind you that people have entered your apartment and wrought havoc in your kitchen, someone booby-trapped your car and, it seems, even got to your family and killed someone important to you.”

  He waited and looked at her. Abigail didn’t look at him and she gazed at the door, wondering if it would seem childish if she burst into tears now. She remembered her sister Latifah, who had paid the price. His words had gotten to her and she raised her hand to wipe away a tear that was running down her cheek.

  His comments aroused her interest and she observed both her hosts. They were well-mannered but serious and let her know that she was being offered a privilege that was not given to everyone.

  “I will also be candid with you,” she said. “I don’t feel comfortable about taking on any assignments at present. I am going through a difficult time. I have no patience for hints, hidden cameras and being taped.” The tone of her voice had an angry timbre that she was unable to restrain.

  “We understand,” Barak said.

  Abigail raised her hand to indicate she hadn’t finished speaking.

  "I’m not apologizing; I’m just tired after everything that’s happened to me recently, as I’m sure you know.”

  They both nodded, making it clear they knew. San, the younger of the two, rose and came to sit on the sofa, closer to her, and said with a small, understanding smile.

  “We missed you by a day. I mean yesterday. Before the story with that Korean woman, you may have been more attentive to us.”

  She was silent and surprised they knew so many personal details about her.

  “Do you know?” Barak joined in the conversation, “San wanted to cancel the meeting with you today, because he thought you wouldn’t have the patience to hear a word of what we have to tell you.”

  He turned to San. “You were right. It’s our loss.”

  Then there was silence.

  “I feel bad about this, even though I didn’t listen to you.” She thought for a moment:

  “I don’t think I’m good for anything, right now, but if you could sum up what you planned to say to one or two sentences, that would be wonderful.”

  San replied, “I wish we could make it brief. It wouldn’t be right. Our remarks are accompanied by slides of places or of…” and he stopped talking.

  “It’s so important and so secret…” Barak added. He covered his mouth with his hand as if to illustrate the secrecy required, “… that I don’t believe. it’s possible to leave out even one single word. A great deal of work has been invested here. I’m even thinking aloud and will say that you really won’t be able to help us and carry out the assignments because you don’t have, what should I say…?” he searched for the right words.

  “… Because I don’t have the emotional strength for it,” Abigail completed the sentence with a smile and continued immediately:

  “But the conversation has aroused my curiosity and given me strength, so give me credit and tell me what you wanted to say to me,” She suggested, sounding interested and enthusiastic.

  They moved to an adjacent room.

  A white screen rolled down and a dark stain appeared on it. It grew lighter as the camera zoomed in on it. Buildings that were surrounded by high walls appeared on the screen and the title beneath the picture read:

  AERIAL VIEW OF THE NUCLEAR REACTOR IN THE AL ZARQAN REGION.

  San explained that is was located close to the city of Ahwaz in southwest Iran on the Iran-Iraq border, that the photograph was not new but had been taken secretly a few years earlier.

  The next slide was of a large structure labeled:

  RUSSIAN 1000 MW REACTOR

  Barak remarked that the Russians claimed had been built to provide the city with electricity.

  “Why are you showing me these pictures?” Abigail asked and San nodded his head to ask her to wait for an answer.

  The slides continued one after another. Pictures of excavations that Barak explained were highly classified secret diggings for the element, for which the photographer had taken enormous risks both when he shot the pictures and when he transmitted them. They were photographs of mines that contained uranium.

  “Uranium”, he said, “is the heaviest metallic element in nature; it’s poisonous and radioactive and traces of it are found in tiny concentrations that are always attached to certain other minerals.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Abigail responded, “so where’s the problem?”

  Now, Barak turned off the slideshow and San explained. “The problem is that many countries are trying to prevent the acquisition of militarily useful levels of uranium that could be used to produce nuclear weapons.”

  “So how do they transfer and distribute it?” Abigail asked.

  “It’s distributed by the International Atomic Energy Agency, the IAEA, but it’s not that simple because the Agency is under constant surveillance by intelligence agencies. They send their people to sniff out, investigate and search all over the world and this is where the danger of its distribution lies.”

  Abigail remained seated and looked thoughtful.

  “What does the stuff look like?” she asked.

  “Uranium? It’s silvery, almost white and it’s hard and heavy. Of course you won’t find it on military supply stores’ shelves and even if you see it, you won’t recognize it.”

  “I see. So, is that the whole story?” Do I have to get of small cube of silvery material and handle it carefully so that Ahmad won’t notice and then escape from everyone until I get here?”

  Both the men laughed with pleasure and Barak said, “You summed it up very well.” He added, laughing:

  “How simple it sounds. You know, perhaps it’s a pity we didn’t tell you what you had to do from the outset instead of complicating things with ugly pictures.”

  “I still don’t understand the problem. Do I have to get special training to serve as a courier of material no one wants to transfer and mustn’t know I have brought?

  “Wait and see.”

  Her remarks amused them and they laughed again. Abigail made everything appear so simple. Even before the meeting, the two of them had decided to find out how aware Abigail was of her situation. San thought that Abigail already understood she was being hunted down and Barak claimed she had no idea that she had been marked and that she was in danger.

  “We have to shake her up and paint a more realistic picture for her,” he said.

  Barak stared long and hard at Abigail and she looked back innocently.

  “Do you know why that the Korean woman whom you defeated will be taken out very soon?”

  “Yes. To silence her and so that they aren’t discovered.”

  “That’s almost right,” he said. “Listen and think logically whether Madame Modang, the Korean, acted by the rules.”

  “I think she did. She fought well and she killed with ease when she had to. I refer, to my sister for example.”

  “Okay, Abigail, we wanted to t
ell you that she made all the possible mistakes.”

  San asked offhandedly:

  “Do you even know or understand what her purpose was in Israel?”

  Abigail thought about it out loud:

  “She was looking for me and came to search my apartment.”

  “That’s right. But we know that Modang usually accompanied women, who were transported to the Arab countries from the Far East, but this time she was ordered to apprehend a Bedouin woman, who had escaped them for over twenty years.”

  Silence followed. Abigail frowned, finding it difficult to absorb what she had just heard.

  At two o’clock in the morning, Abigail drank a boiling hot cup of coffee and covered a yawn that threatened to tear the corner of her mouth. They had spent the last three hours explaining to her that she had been targeted and was in danger.

  When she had heard the sentence, “whether you emerge from your sleeper status or not, they will get you and kill you,” she understood that she was in the right place at the right time.

  * * *

  She was formally recruited into the ‘Mossad’ from her sleeper status but, before she turned to her new activities, she decided she had to find closure for some unfinished business. She thought it was time to face her sister’s killer and find out why she was being persecuted.

  Only two days earlier, Abigail had fought the Korean woman, whom she knew was still in ‘Beilinson’ Hospital in Petach Tikvah. There had been footage on TV of journalists attempting to enter the hospital and photograph her. One quick-witted photographer had succeeded in getting a shot of the guard, posted outside the ward, and distributed it.

  On her way home after the meeting with Barak and San, she thought about it again. It was almost four o’clock in the morning, but she thought it was as good a time as any to put an end to the matter. Abigail looked around to get her bearings and discovered she had passed the intersection leading to the hospital. She took a left turn in order to return. Momentary doubt crept into her mind, but she suppressed it, her lips curling resolutely.