After rubbing the fatigue from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, he dialed a second number. Unlike his attempt with the Man from Paris, the Man from Munich picked up on the second ring.
“Yes,” he said.
“I find the weather in Greenland particularly nice this time of year.”
“And the winter landscape never prettier under the gaze of the full moon.”
These predetermined lines of communication were simply relay statements that the campaign was moving accordingly to the designed plans. If the Man from Munich believed that he was being surveyed, then the response would have been different to indicate a threat.
“Excellent,” said the Bangladeshi. And then: “Are you in position?”
“I’m close enough to the location ready to make a difference.”
“Understood.” After a pause, the Bangladeshi then asked, “Have you received communication from the Man from Paris?’
“No.”
“He’s not answering his phone.”
“You think he was compromised?”
“That’s a possibility. And if that’s the case, then I can safely assume that intel agencies across the globe may be alerted to our actions. We may no longer be under the radar. In fact, there may be a dragnet going on as we speak.”
“This is only speculation.”
“He knows the protocols of communication,” the Bangladeshi fired back. “He has no excuse. Either he has gone rogue, in which case his life will be forfeited, or he fell into the hands of intel operatives who forced from him our agenda. Since I’m inclined to believe that the Mossad is involved, perhaps we should alter our planning as well.”
“To what?”
“Keep an open eye. Survey your surroundings. If the perimeter surrounding the White House or the Capitol appears overly manned, that means our intentions have been compromised. If this is the case, then we’ll have no choice but to shift venues.”
“Understood.”
“You’re in Washington, so survey the area and get back to me.”
“Will do. Give me five hours.”
“You have three.”
After the Bangladeshi hung up, he fixed his gaze on an imaginary point on the far wall. The Man from Paris was incommunicado, meaning that the operation, as it stood, had been reduced by a third. Still, with the targets of Washington, D.C. and Vatican City still within the crosshairs, the destruction of both states would still achieve the means. The Middle East would see this as a divine triumph, even as Tel Aviv remained standing.
But there was another problem, one with grave overtones. He had promised Jaziri the trifecta of all three weapons going off—Satan, the Antichrist and the False Prophet—with the end result the demolition of key cities with collateral damage off the charts. Instead, with the Man from Paris either dead or under containment, his guarantee would fall short of his goal of destroying all three locations. And the price for his failure? His life.
The Bangladeshi began to rake his long and bony fingers through his raven hair. Ahmed Jaziri had not only laid down the law, but he was also precise about the Bangladeshi’s future should he fail. One mishap, one mistake, one misfire—was failure enough in the eyes of Ahmed Jaziri that was not redeemable in any way. No matter what, the Bangladeshi knew there would be no discussions, debates or negotiations. Ahmed Jaziri had paid his bundle and clearly outlined what he wanted. There were no hidden clauses or in-between-the-line phrases. In fact, Jaziri was quite frank with the Bangladeshi who now, in reflection, regretted not having the insight to see that difficulties could develop along the way. As he sat thinking, he now wished that he had negotiated a wiser deal in such a way that his life would not be the final payoff. But his ego, as he now saw it, turned out to be his downfall. His confidence was so overwhelming that he had been blinded to his own follies.
Still, he would look at the moment as a learning experience. In the future, he would be far more cautious with his planning. Once he set off two devices knowing that Ahmed Jaziri would be true to his word about the Bangladeshi’s failure of setting off the third, the Bangladeshi would have to go on the offensive and hunt down Jaziri before the financier had a chance to send out a kill squad.
Closing his eyes, the Bangladeshi took in deep breaths, then he let them out with equally long sighs. Right now, his main focus was on the targeted locations and the repositioning of those under his authority. Assuming that the Man from Paris was no longer in the equation, the Man from Munich clearly was. And so was he, the Bangladeshi, who was but a stone’s throw away from Vatican City.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Headquarters of the Mossad
Tel Aviv, Israel
A ‘burner’ cellphone works on the same principles and concepts as a regular cellphone. When a call from a burner pings off a tower, a record is automatically created to specify which area the cell phone pinged from. Should a cellphone ping off a tower somewhere in the northern sector, then the records will show that the call’s direction was north of the receiving cell tower. It also acts as a tracking measure which narrows down the phone’s exact location. So, when Pierre Fabron’s burner ultimately rang inside of the Mossad’s Tel Aviv’s tech center, the agency was prepared to trace the incoming call. With the use of geospatial satellites and a number of cell towers, the Mossad was able to triangulate the caller’s origin point, which came from Rome. A second call placed moments later after the initial call had been traced from the origin number to another unregistered phone in Washington, D.C. Though the phones had predetermined numbers but no registered owner to either account, it was assumed that the Bangladeshi attempted to contact the Man from Paris to set the next stage of the operation, but failed to connect, then subsequently linked up with the Man from
