The Fourth War Read Free Page B

ran down his spine as he wiped the sweat from his eyes.
    He pressed his microphone switch again. “Bury the body.” He paused as he thought. “Give her some kind of prayer. And take care of my horse. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

2
    Shin Bet Auxiliary Outpost
Twelve Miles South of Tel Aviv
    Few people have ever heard of the Israeli counterintelligence agency known as Shin Bet, or their undercover detachments know as the Mista’arvim (marauders). And if few knew of the Shin Bet, fewer still knew of their brutal tactics or what they had done.
    But those who worked with the agents or had suffered under their hands, having experienced the “special measures” the Israeli high courts had authorized, could testify the Israelis were as good at extracting information as any organization on earth. They were much better than the Egyptians, the proxy interrogators the CIA used, for the Egyptians were too slow and clumsy to rival Shin Bet. And over the years Shin Bet had only gotten better, more focused and intent. The war was too bloody. Too many people had died. They were caught up in the great battle that tested which nation had the strongest will to survive.
    Since the war on terror had grown to a worldwide effort, the United States and Israel had been bound by multiple cords, all of them leading back to Islamist terrorist groups. And both intelligence agencies shared the same fear. The enemy hadn’t been defeated, but had only slithered a little deeper into the dark. And the big one was coming. The black day was near.
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    Eleven hours after being extracted from the mountains of Central Asia, Peter Zembeic was asleep in the officers quarters of the Shin Bet auxiliary compound. He had been asleep for less than two hours when the intercom buzzed.
    â€œPeter, you awake?” Even through the haze, Peter recognized the American colonel’s voice.
    The CIA agent rolled painfully onto his side. He was sore and exhausted, and he needed another fifteen hours of sleep. “Yeah, boss,” he slurred, making no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice.
    â€œCome down to ops. We’ve got a problem with the chip.”
    Peter stared at the wall, his mind suddenly clear and awake. He started to question, then swore to himself.
    A problem with the chip!
    He cursed angrily, then rolled off the bed.
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    Special Agent Peter Zembeic ambled wearily into the Shin Bet operations center. The room was dimly lit and lined with computers, telephones, fax machines, and secure data-transfer consoles. Along the front wall a huge plasma video screen was directly linked to the Shin Bet command center in Jerusalem. The room was deserted except for an Israeli escort and the American colonel, an air force liaison on temporary assignment to the CIA.
    Col. Shane “Clipper” Bradley (he had once clipped his F-15 wings through some trees) sat, dressed in faded jeans, a blue shirt, and leather hiking boots at a small computer console. He hadn’t worn a uniform since stepping off the government jet and onto the tarmac at the airport in Jerusalem, for the U.S. military officers working inside Israel never identified themselves. Might was well paint a red target on their foreheads and wander down to the nearest bus station and wait for the next suicide bomber, as be walking around the besieged country in air force blues. Further, the last place in the world either side wanted to see a U.S. military uniform was inside a compound run by Shin Bet. Such was a risk neither side would endure.
    Colonel Bradley glanced up as Peter walked into the room. Zembeic had cleaned up, having spent thirty minutes in the shower before dropping into bed, and his skin was still pink from being scrubbed raw. His long hair and bushy beard smelled of shampoo and soap. He wore faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and black cowboys boots. The colonel smiled lightly. Peter was one of the few men he knew who dared wear faux black rhino