Meyer-Hofmann AG

39

Earlier that day, the rest of the Meyer-Hofmann board had met briefly at Munich Airport, before taking a mix of private and scheduled flights to destinations around the world. Anton Brandt made use of the company’s private jet to fly to Abadan International Airport on the Iran/Iraq border. His destination was a training camp near Bandar Mahshahr, some 100 km from the airport and 300 km from their target in Bushehr. The Arab spring had played into Meyer-Hofmann’s hands perfectly, opening the door to countries directly on Israel’s border. Both Syria and Egypt had become so unstable that Meyer-Hofmann’s people were now able to move around with virtual impunity. Groups of clone and mercenary soldiers had moved training camps into both countries. Meyer-Hofmann had been funding the Arab resistance since the founding of the state of Israel in 1948. That had won them many friends in the region, and when they had suggested that a strike against Israel was not only a possibility but an imminent event, that support had become unbridled. The plans for Iran had remained a secret. Attacking an Iranian Nuclear Plant would not have been condoned, whatever the motives. It was decided that there would be a covert operation, carried out by first-generation clones. A small group of soldiers had already moved into Iran under the premise of training fighters for the future attack on Israel. Meyer-Hofmann’s training camps in Pakistan were well known to the Iranians, who would often pay for their own people to take part in exercises there. When Von Klitzing suggested that they train directly in Iran, the offer had been accepted with enthusiasm.

Brandt would make the trip to Bushehr with the small clandestine force. He had not seen duty in any of the desert campaigns in World War II, and now, watching the sandy landscape pass him by through the truck’s dirty window, he was grateful.

What a place. I shall be glad to get back home. He watched the heat shimmer on the horizon. The bleak landscape of dunes and stony ground interspersed with blue-green shrubs and bushes stretched out as far as he could see.

The flat-roofed houses of Bandar Mahshahr, with its dusty roads and unkempt palm trees, did nothing to change his feelings towards the barren country.

I would take the green hills and forests of Europe, any day!

As the small convoy of trucks bumped and rumbled its way into the distant hills, Brandt found himself becoming ever more excited by the plan.

This plan is really of my own making, even if a generation separates me from Von Klitzing.

He marvelled at his ingenuity, and most of all, at Meyer-Hofmann’s’ survival, despite the massive odds stacked against it.

We are still fighting, and this time, we have a huge chance of success.

Pride filled him as he turned and looked at the hulk of a man sat next to him. The driver was steering the lumbering German truck down the broken streets of Iran.

“How long until we arrive, Heinz?”

“About half an hour, sir. The base is at the bottom of the group of hills you can see on the horizon.” Heinz pointed a stubby finger in the general direction.

“When do we move down to Bushehr?”

“Two days, sir. All being well, you can expect an Israeli strike by the end of the week. We must be in place by then.”

“I agree. Are the weapons ready?”

“We have already got fifty percent on site, the rest we take with us.”

“Good. Very good!”

Now all we need is for Von Klitzing to persuade the Jews that they are in mortal danger. That neurotic nation will take the bait, hook, line, and sinker. He was certain.

Von Klitzing was meeting with an Israeli official he had been nurturing for years. Gaining trust from anyone in the Israeli Military was an almost impossible task. They were all paranoid, and not without reason. Benjamin Cerf was a colonel in the Mossad, who had been in the military since he was sixteen years old. Like many men of his age, he had seen action in the Yom Kippur war, a war that started after Egypt and Syria had chosen the holiest day in the Jewish calendar to launch a surprise attack. He was stationed in the Golan Heights at the time and found himself in the middle of the Syrian Invasion. The horror of that three weeks had changed him forever. He had sworn his life to the protection of his country and had actively sought out a job in the Mossad when his military service ended.

Von Klitzing had first met Cerf in 2003 as a member of a German trade delegation that had been invited to Tel Aviv to discuss closer economic ties between the two countries. Cerf was a large man, and although not overweight, he was prone to sweating, constantly dabbing his brow with a white handkerchief. When he had been introduced, Von Klitzing was surprised by the dry, warm nature of the handshake and the strong and authoritative grip. Cerf was introduced as the representative of Israel Railways. Von Klitzing as a manager of Siemens. A description that, at the time, was not totally untrue. Siemens was a company in which Meyer-Hofmann held considerable stock and influence. Cerf, however, had no connection whatsoever to Israel Railways, and his fictitious position was a simple cover story. Von Klitzing was well aware of this, even before they met, and he had singled out Cerf as a potential target. He had needed a contact in Israel for a considerable time, believing you should keep your friends close but your enemies closer. He decided he needed to keep tabs on what the Israelis knew or didn’t know about Meyer-Hofmann. Grooming Cerf had taken time, but over the years, had almost become as enjoyable as it was beneficial. Cerf liked the good things in life, and their meetings were always in the best restaurants and hotels. It was not uncommon for the men to talk for hours over a fine cognac and a good cigar without once mentioning business, and the relationship had prospered as a result. It was just such a night in a Munich hotel bar when the men had outed themselves.

“My friend, I must make a confession,” Cerf had started.

“I have been approached by the Israeli secret service to provide names of associates who may be sympathetic to our cause. I wondered if you would mind my mentioning your name? We have so much in common, Johann, and I believe you understand the issues we are facing.” Von Klitzing had smiled at Cerf, patting him on the shoulder.

“Dear Benjamin, it would be an honour, but I too must make a confession. I have connections to the BND.” That had shocked Cerf, or at least, he had appeared shocked.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t told them anything about you, not that there was ever much to tell.” He laughed.

“No, I just meet so many people on my business travels that they often liaise with me. Ask for advice.”

Cerf had mulled the implications over for a while.

“This could be good for us, for both our countries. I will have to talk to my superiors, but this could be a perfect synergy.”

Von Klitzing had not slept well for a week after that meeting, but making the Israelis believe he had connections to the German security agency had been a masterstroke. As an industrialist, Von Klitzing’s use to the Israelis was limited, but as a German spy, it was immeasurable. Cerf had seized the opportunity with both hands, doing his best to convince Von Klitzing of the Jewish cause, and Von Klitzing had not disappointed. He fed Cerf regular and top-rate intelligence. Meyer-Hofmann’s intimate relationship with the Arab states and their different paramilitary groups meant Von Klitzing could give Cerf the names and whereabouts of key figures whenever it suited his purposes. The Israeli, in turn, would give Von Klitzing access to intelligence about almost any country or company that interested him. Cerf craved every scrap of information he could get from Von Klitzing, who was possibly his best informant, and his rise through the ranks of the Mossad was due, in part, to the intelligence he received from the German. Only last month, Von Klitzing had used Cerf to kill a Hezbollah commander who had become suspicious about Meyer-Hofmann’s motives in setting up training camps in Iran. Von Klitzing had passed the commander’s name and whereabouts to Cerf, knowing that the Israelis would take the appropriate action. The very next day, a drone attack in Lebanon had killed the commander and his two brothers whilst driving the family car back to their home in Gaza. But the culmination of Von Klitzing’s work would be his appointment today. Cerf had seemed pleased to hear from him, and even more interested when he heard that Von Klitzing was planning a personal visit.

“What could be so important that you can’t tell me over the phone? You know our lines are secure, my friend.”

“It is a personal matter, Benjamin, a personal decision not sanctioned by my Government.”

“How intriguing. I shall look forward to finding out what controversial information it is that you have for me, Johann.”

Von Klitzing’s plan had been taking shape for a considerable amount of time. He had manipulated German government connections to get invited to Iran. The Iranian Government believed him to have contacts to KWU, Siemens’s old Nuclear power division. Siemens had worked extensively with successive Iranian governments until sanctions and the sale of their nuclear business interests in 2011 had ended the cooperation. KWU was now in French hands, and the French were somewhat resistant to any plans concerning nuclear power and Iran. So the Iranians were hoping Meyer-Hofmann’s connections and the recent thawing of diplomatic relations between the new Iranian government and the western world would help them bridge that gap. As a result, Von Klitzing had two Iranian stamps in his passport to show Cerf, and he hoped that those, combined with some doctored photographs of the Iranian nuclear plant in Bushehr, would light the touch paper.

He had had a less pleasant journey than his alter ego. It was not the economy seat on El Al that had bothered him as much as the worry. Von Klitzing was not used to the emotion and was finding it hard to control. Since the events of the night before, he had begun to worry about a lot of things. The reports from the club were not good, Jarvis or Hofmann had wreaked havoc in the place and, together with Jarvis’s wife, they had escaped. Both were presently guests of the German Police. The loss of the club would have repercussions, but for the time being, there was no way that the police could retrieve any classified information from the building. He had personally overseen the servicing of the demolition systems. If everything had functioned in the way it had been designed to, there would be nothing left but ashes, buried under half a million cubic metres of reinforced concrete. It was Jarvis who worried him most. Or more to the point, the hybrid Jarvis had become. Hofmann had always been a would-be soldier and a very accomplished businessman, but nothing like the man who had just single-handedly destroyed the second-best-defended facility Meyer-Hofmann owned. Von Klitzing remembered Franz Meyer as the brutal part of the partnership. It seemed he had been wrong.

Standing in the Bianco suite of the Carlton Hotel, looking out at the sea gently lapping at the shoreline, he should have been feeling elated. Instead, he was seriously worried.

“What is taking so long? He should be dead by now!” Von Klitzing cut off the cellular call, shaking his head. Waiting in a Tel Aviv hotel room made him feel impotent and angry.