Israeli Embassy, Washington DC

Walking out of Martin's (bellies full of bar food, brains swimming in alcohol), a Yellow Cab spotted us, pulling over to the curb. I'd called dibs on the first cab, so Bob stepped to one side allowing me to be the one to open the door and climb in.

“G’night, Bob.”
“G’night, Frank.”

But as the taxi pulled away, and I started to tell the driver my home address, the schmuck cut me off.

“That won’t be necessary, Professor Myers — I’ll be taking you directly to the Israeli embassy. Sorry, sir, but I have my orders.”

Minutes later, the highly-secured gate on Embassy Row was sliding open for us to enter Israeli territory. As soon as it had slid shut behind us, the half moon garage door on the west side of the main building quickly opened, and the taxi disappeared inside. To our left was a team of mechanics who, for some reason, appeared to be totally disassembling a UPS truck. To our right was the familiar face of the station chief for the Mossad, who was there to greet me, as was his equally familiar second-in-command. They immediately advised me not to share anything I was about to witness with anyone but my immediate superior at the George Bush Building (i.e. Langley). "Obviously," I replied.

At the west side of the garage was an elevator that took the three of us into the basement. But no sooner had the elevator door opened onto the bottom floor than I heard a muffled gunshot followed by the sounds of two men screaming.

“What the fuck was that?” I blurted out, unaccustomed to such aural stimuli.

“That was the sound of the brain of one SVR agent hanging by his wrists from the ceiling being splattered across the faces of two other SVR agents also hanging by their wrists from the ceiling. We don’t fuck around here, Mr. Myers. You should know that about us.”

The two men then proceeded to lead me down a long hallway. At about the midway point, the station chief opened the door to our left where a group of technicians was gathered around some sort of device sitting on a Formica table in the middle of the room.

“That’s what the device looks like, Mr. Myers — the purpose for your visit here tonight.”

As we continued on down the hallway, we passed by a thick metal door on our right just in time to hear a muffled bloodcurdling scream from inside. This time it was a woman's voice. I cringed.

“Again, Mr. Myers — we don’t fuck around.”

At the far end of the hallway was an ornate, French provincial sitting room. Once inside, door closed, the station chief looked me straight in the eye, speaking in a hushed, measured tone:

“We only have about 5 minutes, Mr. Myers, 10 tops, before your colleagues begin to cordon off the area, opening a channel to that red phone over there, demanding to know why we have abducted you, before making it crystal clear as only they can that we had better goddamned turn you over to them immediately —or else. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we?

“Earlier this evening, our security team detected ‘pulsed and directed microwaves’ entering our compound from a UPS truck parked across the street. The same type of 'Havana Syndrome' shit that has been targeting your embassies and consulates for the past two years. Apparently, those same assholes that have been targeting you thought they could pull the same shit with us. They were, of course, fatally mistaken. In less than 90 seconds, we had them surrounded; took everyone inside prisoner; and commandeered their vehicle.  As you've probably already guessed, the sounds you've been overhearing are those of our Russian-speaking interrogators doing what they do best."

Just then a second gunshot rang out, along with another bloodcurdling scream. I narrowed the corner of one eye to signal to the two gentlemen that I did not appreciate being so close to their 'sources' and 'methods.' The station chief shrugged, "Sorry about that" and continued in the same steady, measured tone:

"Again, let's cut to the chase: My technical team should be walking through that door, any minute now, with the schemata for the device. Along with any preliminary findings from our interrogators. It's our goal to pass that off to an American operative who can be trusted not to let it slip into Trump's hands — and from Trump's, into Putin's."

(Just then, a knock came to the door: it was the schemata, the preliminary findings... and three of the scariest looking motherfuckers I ever laid eyes on.)

"Fortunately for us, it's a Sunday evening. And we always have a pretty good idea where we can find 'Professor Myers' on a Sunday evening."