Spy Dance

by Allan Topol

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been on the run from the CIA for five years, as you well know. American Express and Visa weren’t exactly an option.”

  She accepted what he said. “I’ll wire the two million before you leave the boat. For purposes of this project, you need a code name. We’ll use ‘Outlaw.’”

  “Coming from you, I take that as a compliment. Now that we’re partners of sorts,” he added, “I want Daphna released right away.”

  She calmly grimaced. “Forget it. The girl’s my insurance policy in case you don’t perform. If you do, she’ll be released unharmed on October 8, the date you go into Saudi Arabia. You can wait for assurance that she’s back in Israel and safe before you board the plane that day. Those are my terms. Nothing else.”

  As he stared at her, he knew that she wouldn’t budge. He didn’t like it, but he could live with it. That gave the Mossad a little more than two weeks to devise a way to get her out.

  As if reading his mind, Madame Blanc added, “There is one other thing, now that we’re partners of sorts, as you just put it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You better have nothing else to do with the Mossad.”

  “That’s understood.”

  She stood up, signaling the end of the conversation. “Well, it sure as hell better be. If I find that you’re working with either the Mossad or the CIA from this point on, I’ll get you and Daphna back on this boat, and while you’re still alive I’ll have my west African bodyguards rip the skin off both of your bodies with sharp knives.” She pointed her finger at him again. “Her first. Then you. The bloody pulp of what’s left of the two of you we’ll feed to the sharks.”

  Chapter 10

  “What success have you had locating Daphna?” Moshe asked Sagit across his desk when she finished an hour-long report about David’s activities in France.

  “David thinks they may be holding her somewhere near Grasse. We’re searching quietly ourselves and with French people we can trust. We take seriously Madame Blanc’s threat to kill Daphna if she finds out the Mossad’s still in the act. To try to involve the French government with Blanc’s political contacts would get us nowhere. When we locate Daphna, I’ll put together a rescue plan for your approval. Is that okay?”

  “Ach, what else can I do?” the black bear muttered in frustration, as he climbed out of his desk chair, cigarette in hand, and walked over to the broad window that faced the Knesset and the expanse of western Jerusalem, with the Hebrew University clustered among governmental buildings. He opened the window, letting the warm air strike him in the face.

  Suddenly, Moshe wheeled around and said, “We have to call Washington and tell them everything that’s happened. We also have to tell them not to go to the French government at this point under any circumstances, or the girl’s dead.”

  She knew why Moshe wanted to call Washington, but she decided to make him say it, hoping to talk him out of it. “You really think it’s necessary to go to Washington?”

  “I don’t think it. I know it.” He pointed to a manila folder in the center of his desk. “When you were in Paris, I had our research people run current figures for me. Saudi Arabia supplies almost twenty percent of all United States oil, and it’s the single largest source for American oil imports. Suddenly America’s interests in Madame Blanc’s little caper are greater than our own.”

  She wasn’t convinced. Why should Israel have to give priority to America’s interest over its own? “We’re vitally affected if another fundamentalist regime comes to power in the region. It’s still our neighborhood.”

  “Agreed, but we’re talking about a potentially crippling blow to the U.S. economy if Saudi oil falls into the wrong hands.”

  “At this point we don’t know if it will be the wrong hands, because we don’t know who Madame Blanc’s Saudi partners are. And she told David that the oil flow to the U.S. would continue after the coup.”

  Moshe frowned and ran his hand through his uncombed mop of gray hair. “All of that’s fine, but we’ve worked too hard to develop a close relationship with Washington and President Waltham to keep them out of the loop. Besides, this isn’t only about oil. From what David said, it’s very clear that Madame Blanc isn’t worried about the risk of American intervention. Why not?”

  “Because she has an American spy or a mole.”

  “Possibly, or because she has a key American official in the conspiracy. That’s something Washington has to know about. I’ll brief the prime minister later today, but I know where he’ll come out on the issue. He puts close ties with Washington as a top priority. He’d never let me hold back something like this. It’s not right. Besides, they’ll make us pay for it later. We’ve got to reach a common plan of action.”

  Sagit protested. “But isn’t the likely Washington reaction going to be to seek an immediate extradition of David, to toss him in jail and to strengthen security around the Saudi king? That may lead to Daphna’s death as well.”

  Moshe got a curious look in his eyes. Suddenly he understood the reason for her reluctance to tell Washington. She didn’t want to put David at risk. He thought about those three condoms in the Paris hotel room. He had to get her thinking with her head again. “That’s certainly possible. On the other hand, Washington could agree to give us a few days to find Daphna and get her out. They might even agree to let David stick with his infiltration of Madame Blanc in order to find out who in Saudi Arabia is being supported by her. Once he obtains that information, the Saudi king will be able to crush the insurgents. And unless the king has that information, the insurgents will be able to go back into the woodwork until the level of security falls again, in a couple of months or years.”

  “When you put it that way, the idea of letting David continue to operate with Madame Blanc makes a lot more sense for both of our governments.”

  “That’s the way I would go, but I’m afraid your initial instinctive reaction will prove to be correct. That Chambers’ personal animosity will preclude selection of the rational alternative, and they’ll seek David’s immediate extradition.”

  She raised her voice. “I can’t believe that the United States government would behave so stupidly.”

  Moshe shrugged. “You may be right about what’s smart and what’s not, but it’s still Washington’s decision.”

  “Can we influence it?”

  Puzzled, he looked at her. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, I developed a pretty decent relationship last year with Margaret Joyner. Rather than simply call or send a written message to Washington, which will get the knee-jerk extradition reaction, I’d like to go over in person and talk to her one on one.”

  Moshe sighed deeply and considered her idea. “On a professional level, you’ve got my blessing,” he said, “and I’m sure I’ll be able to get the approval of the prime minister for your trip.”

  “And on a personal level?”

  She held her breath as he looked at her sternly, like a concerned father. He had recruited her from the streets of Tel Aviv more than twenty years ago. Life had been cruel to her, and she had been at rock bottom, but he had seen something there—a spark that wouldn’t die regardless of the winds, a desire to strike out at life’s injustices, and an untutored but keen native intelligence—sachel in Yiddish, raw horse sense that you need to survive in the intelligence game. So he had taken her under his wing, and she had been his prize pupil, his star, through all these long years, as he gradually honed her skills. Now he could see all of these efforts going down the drain because of a man called David.

  He could take her off the case, but he didn’t have time for that. Besides, it was already too late. He knew she was in love with David, though he doubted if she knew it. In his typically enigmatic way, he said, “Don’t lose yourself in the process of trying to save him.”

  “You better explain that, Moshe. I may be tired, but it was a little too elliptical and cryptic for me. To the extent I understood it, I didn’t like it.�
��

  He hesitated, trying to formulate his words carefully. “I know you well, Sagit, I heard the nuances in your voice when you gave the long report of what happened in Paris. I think you’re becoming personally involved with David Ben Aaron. Emotionally, I mean.”

  She blushed. “Take me off the case, then.”

  “There’s no time for that. Unless you tell me that you can’t do the job because—”

  Now she was irritated at him, tired of constantly having to defend herself. “I can do the job.” She said curtly.

  “Good. Then let me tell you that I don’t trust him. I think he has his own agenda. In France, he wouldn’t cooperate enough so that you could track him to St. Tropez.”

  She fiddled with her hands on her lap and looked down at them. Moshe had no right to blame her for what happened in France. “None of us could foresee an airplane.”

  “I understand that, but it means that you have to take his word for everything he says happened in St. Tropez.”

  “That’s true, but what specifically is worrying you?”

  “Well, let me put it this way,” he said slowly. “While being run by you, our CIA/Russian boychik managed to work things out so that he now has two million dollars in a Swiss bank account that he alone can access. That was never part of our plan.”

  She felt relieved that the money was the cause of his concern, rather than her personal involvement. “When I debriefed him, I pressed him hard on that point. He said that it was a sudden idea that popped into his head. He said that the ultimate objective was to find out who the Saudi coup leader is. He thought he had a better chance of getting inside Madame Blanc’s group and gaining her confidence, in order to get that information, if she viewed him as a partner. She would believe that he was crossing the line from being someone who submitted to blackmail to being someone who was a co-conspirator, and she would be more open with him.” Sagit gave him a searching look. “You think he’s conning us?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way. You’re going out on a long limb for him. Maybe everything’s just like he told you, and I’m being paranoid. It wouldn’t be the first time with this job. Maybe he’s planning to be an honorable kibbutz member and donate the two million dollars to Bet Mordechai, if all this ends well for him and us. Maybe he figures he bought a two-million-dollar insurance policy, in case all of this goes south on us and him, which is certainly possible.” Moshe gave her a look of skepticism, signifying what he thought of that alternative. “Or maybe he’s planning to get to Geneva ASAP, grab the two million, and take on still another new identity and disappear again. This time to Brazil or someplace like that.”

  His words saddened her. “And what about Daphna?” she said weakly.

  “She’s only a stepdaughter. He won’t worry about what happens to her.”

  “But if that’s the case, why did he tell me about the two million at all? I wasn’t in St. Tropez. He could have kept it to himself.”

  “But if you later found out, you’d know he was conning us. This way he can say ‘look how open and cooperative I’m being with you.”

  She was visibly shaken by his words. “My God, Moshe, do you really think...?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” he said sternly.

  “If I persuade Margaret Joyner and the Americans to go along with us, and then he takes off with the two million and leaves us holding the bag, we’ll look like a bunch of idiots.”

  “Unfortunately, that is an accurate characterization, and you would be destroyed in the process.”

  His words hung in the air. For several moments they sat and stared at each other, two people who had worked together so long, who knew one another so well and cared for each other. “You have such a blunt way of expressing yourself, Moshe.”

  “So Sagit, my dear, do you still want to go to Washington?” She nodded. “Okay, when?”

  “Right now,” she said decisively. “If Margaret can see me tomorrow, I’ll take the midnight plane.”

  “Good. I’ll call her and set it up. Meantime, you go see Rachel in the library. She’ll give you some books about Saudi Arabia to read on the long flight.” He smiled at her. “I’d hate to see you waste your time sleeping.”

  * * *

  Khalid stood alone at the fourth-floor window in the Defense Ministry building overlooking Justice Square in central Riyadh, the venue for beheading criminals, and stared at the deserted square below. It should be swarming with people on a Wednesday at noon, but today it was empty. This was no ordinary Wednesday. Utilizing his air force intelligence sources, Khalid had learned two weeks ago that the reason was being referred to in clandestine whispers, in e-mails read and instantly deleted, and in hushed coded phone calls as “the women’s march.” The chief organizer, Misha’il, had been in Washington for the million women’s march on Mother’s Day in the year 2000. The organizers had selected a weekday, avoiding the Sabbath and further hostility from the clerics.

  Khalid looked at the one end of the square in front of the old clock tower. They were assembling—about two hundred women, he guessed, with their heads uncovered in defiance of law, and an equal number of young male students from the university who were supporting them. The exotically beautiful, dark-haired Princess Misha’il was in front of the crowd organizing them with a battery-powered bullhorn. They were not from the lower classes, but professional families. Some like Misha’il were from royalty. The signs they held explained their message: “The Koran doesn’t bar women from driving.” “Women should be free to eat in restaurants.” “Women are people, not property.”

  The king hadn’t trusted local police or even the army to deal with this protest. Instead, at the other end of the square, in front of the Governor’s office, crack units of the king’s National Guard, fierce Bedouins from the desert, were assembling. Many of them were on horses. All were armed with wooden truncheons, in full battle dress with gas masks at their sides. There was no television. or press. No representatives of foreign governments. The king had assured that by cordoning off a one-mile area in all directions. The only ones permitted to enter were marchers, the guards and those like Khalid who had military credentials. An eerie calm had settled over the square below. The calm before a storm.

  Khalid shook his head in dismay. The king could have prevented this march from ever occurring. All he had to do was keep the protesters out of the area, but that wasn’t what he wanted. No, he wanted to teach these women and their sympathizers a lesson. Unless his strict rule was upheld, the entire state would unravel.

  Khalid heard footsteps behind him, and he wheeled around quickly. It was Naif, an air force captain who was an aide and confidant of the colonel.

  “Can I get you anything, sir?” the captain asked. “Water or anything else?”

  “Nothing, thanks. Would you like to join me and watch?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. I’m afraid I know how it’s going to end. I’ll stay here at the doorway and let you know if anyone’s coming. Almost everyone has gone home.”

  Ten minutes later, the protesters were ready. Khalid had learned that their plan was to get to the center of the square, where they would erect a temporary platform from wooden crates. There Princess Misha’il and others would speak. After that they would peacefully disband and go home.

  Carrying their signs and chanting “Freedom for Saudi women,” the group made it only about a quarter of the way across the square. That was when the National Guard units on horseback rode directly into the crowd of unarmed women and students, swinging their truncheons, smacking heads and arms, anything within range. Screams came from the crowd. Bloodcurdling screams of fear and pain. Screams of disbelief, Khalid thought, because in their naïveté these people never thought they would be treated this way. One soldier struck Princess Misha’il. Khalid saw blood flowing from her head and down her cheek. One eye was bloody and closed. Some of those who cowered on the ground were kicked and trampled by horses.

  When the units on horseback had done t
heir damage, the soldiers on foot wearing gas masks came through spraying tear gas. Then they, too, rushed into the crowd swinging their clubs. There were more loud, anguished screams.

  In a mere fifteen minutes it was over. The National Guard withdrew. No one was arrested. The king had decided that it was better to leave the bloody mess to set an example.

  As best they could, the protesters cared for one another. They dragged their colleagues to hospitals—hoping that they would be treated, that Saudi doctors wouldn’t be too intimidated to render help.

  In despair, shame and anger, Khalid turned away from the window.

  The captain drove him back to his base.

  That evening in his house, Khalid didn’t talk about what had happened. Not with his wife, Nura; not with his four children. His son was fourteen and his daughters seven, nine and eleven. He didn’t talk at all; he was sullen and quiet. But they knew. They all knew, with varying degrees of comprehension, because the word had spread that afternoon through Riyadh, exactly as the king had intended. Even later in bed he didn’t intend to talk about it with his wife. He didn’t want her to know how sick he was inside, how he planned to change the situation in the country for his own daughters, who, had they been a few years older, might have been marching and been beaten to a bloody pulp.

  After dinner, someone suddenly knocked on the door of Khalid’s house. He glanced at his wife, who must have known what he was planning, because with the knock, she became white with terror. He got up to answer the door. It was Salmon, another colonel in the air force—one who had been unwilling to commit to Khalid’s coup plans.

  “We have to talk,” Salmon said to Khalid.

  Khalid put one finger to his ear and another to the walls. How could he be certain that the king’s spies had not planted a listening device?

  Outside in the rapidly cooling evening air, Salmon offered a cigarette to Khalid, who declined, then Salmon lit one up himself. “You know about today?” he asked.