(Rewinding a little to introduce Mikal for this co-post with Chase. We wanted to keep the time difference right, this was the only way to make sure. This post occurs between Carmen’s phone call and when Chase met up with Chief.)
The night before. San Francisco, CA.
As soon as Carmen Sandiego gave coordinates to what may be the location of ACME Tower, Chase instinctively contacted an old friend: Ashraq Jal Darsha, Mikal's brother and a head figure in Sayeret Mat'kal, or the Israeli Special Forces. He knew their unit would have been interested in that area since the Algerians had a brief riot earlier this month. If Algiers was under surveillance, Tunisia shouldn’t be far behind.
The conversation was light, where Ashraq spoke of his family, teased the Field Director about life, and promised satellite feeds by morning. But when Chase gave the longitude and latitude, the Israeli chuckled in reply.
"Oh that!" Arsharq Darsha said in an accent heavily imbued with his heritage, "Flash of light in middle day, we thought some old infrastructure blown up and got exposed. We were going to send it in to Mossad tomorrow."
"If you can send the feed, I'll verify that it's ACME tower."
"I don't need too, it is ACME tower," Jal Darsha assured, "I can see your roof with your A-C-M-E logo."
In her own convoluted way, Carmen told the truth. Chase breathed, knowing what his next steps would be.
"You have the feed from the moment the tower appeared until current?"
"Yes, a snapshot of every 30 seconds, but I don't have live feed."
"That'll do. I need the make, model, and license of all vehicles in the area outbound and inbound… airborne, especially. I also need to focus on a time frame… someone at the site gave me these coordinates ten minutes ago, and I need to track their movements."
"Okay, and I can do better than that, Calev," Ashraq had a smile in his voice, "I can tag vehicles for you, and tell you where they're heading. The only thing I cannot do is send down a ground team to verify.”
"Wouldn't ask that of you."
"But you know who loves falafel and is in Tunisia?"
Devineaux understood fully. After the Venetian ruckus that December Blue Moon last year, Chase sent Mikal Jal Darsha to Amman where the Israeli uncovered a smuggling ring with the help of a certain expert from Moscow named Tatyana Erzin. When the case ended, Erzin transferred to San Francisco to both further her studies and begin practice as a Public Relations Officer. Mikal took a vacation, which probably meant he was doing unofficial duties.
"I got it," Chase acknowledged, "Thanks."
----
Later, in Tel Aviv, a man wearing a tan uniform marched down a reinforced steel walkway roughly 30 meters under ground. He carried a crisp manila folder containing very rough coordinates and a request. The request came from one of the sons of Israeli war hero Jal Darsha Bhar, and the coordinates were somewhere in Southern Tunisia, a place with little to see unless one was moderating the movements of sand.
----
Tunis, Tunisia
For reasons that should never be mentioned, Mikal Darsha was in Tunisa. It was one of the 364 sunny days of desert weather, and he was ready to leave. His phone played the tune of a Nirvana song, and the Israeli agent immediately knew the caller.
“Shalom, Captain,” he had been hoping for a call, here in the desert, any contact was better than none at all.
“Are you in Tunisia?”
“Ken [yes].. it’s very hot.”
“Right, good, I need you to head south to El Khandra, I’ll send you the coordinates.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me in San Francisco? Or in a cold place like Venice last year?”
“Mikal, listen to me,” Chase explained, “yesterday, ACME tower was stolen.”
“Meshuga! [Crazy] How?”
“Carmen Sandiego.”
“Oh, mitzta’er [I’m sorry]”
“Ashraq verified its current location. I need you to go down there and survey the ground for me.”
“Then I am happy to do it, Captain.”
“Yo’fi [great], I’ll contact you again as soon as I get to Tunisia, give me about 24 hours.”
“Lehitra’ot [see you soon].”
After wishing the Marine Captain a nice trip, Mikal Darsha eyed the southern horizon and walked through the streets of Tunis. At a stall selling thick tuna Brik, he made a purchase of some pastries and a sealed bottle of Thibarine, a local herbal liqueur.
“Party tonight, Sahmed?” the stall’s owner referred to Mikals’ alias while pointing with his eyes to the bottle.
“No, it’s for my brother,” Sahmed replied, “he got woman troubles”
The Tunisian pastry seller and the Israeli in disguise shared a knowing laugh, and the later immediately took a jeep out from the city before the sun fell.
