by Allan Topol
* * *
David boarded the plane early. He took his aisle seat in the second row of first class, and accepted a copy of Ha’aretz from the flight attendant. He pretended to be reading, but in fact he was studying every passenger who boarded the plane, trying to see if the men following him in Paris had boarded the plane.
They were about to close the door, he noticed. Nothing at all had looked suspicious. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he saw her come through the door. It was Sagit, wearing a large black hat. She passed without acknowledging him, and then she sat down five rows back—in the last row of first class.
An hour into the flight, she went to the lavatory in front of the plane. He followed her and was standing in front of the door when she opened it from the inside.
He whispered, “How did you know what plane I was on?”
“We tapped into El Al’s computer. We can get access to all the carriers’ passenger lists that way.”
“And you boarded the plane to make sure I went directly home?”
She glared at him. “You have been known to disappear. Look for me in the baggage claim area at Ben Gurion and follow me out of the terminal.”
* * *
She led him to a small cubicle of a room that had been constructed underground at one end of the terminal building. The walls were a faded gray and appeared to be soundproof. Inside was a simple wooden table and two chairs. He guessed that security agents used the room for interrogating suspicious individuals who flew into Israel.
Having spent so much time in rooms like this interrogating suspects himself, he felt a little uncomfortable at first. Quickly, he shrugged it off.
“How are the pictures?” he asked.
She reached into her bag and produced half a dozen black-and-white five-by-sevens of Victor Foch.
He studied them. The clarity reminded him of her other pictures, the ones he’d had developed in Paris. “You do good work,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said enthusiastically. “It’s more than a hobby. It’s a passion with me.”
“And you are a passionate woman. I know that.”
“Look, wiseguy…”
“No, really, they’re quite good. I mean it.” He met her eye. “You could always quit the Mossad and become a professional photographer.”
“Sorry. I want more from life than doing weddings and bar mitzvahs.” As far as she was concerned, the personal talk was over. It was time to deal with Moshe.
Chapter 13
They made the last plane that night from Tel Aviv to London. Actually, the plane left an hour late as a result of Moshe’s phone call to the president of El Al. When the airline executive initially refused to accede to his request, Moshe cajoled, shouted, cursed and ultimately threatened to call the prime minister before the executive gave in. The other passengers grumbled and chafed at the unexplained delay, despite the complimentary drinks being served, while a courier rushed a phony Israeli passport to the airport for David, and a digital cell phone that he could use for secure direct communications with Sagit’s phone.
At Heathrow, they ignored each other and took their own cabs to the west end of London. Sagit checked into the Hyde Park Hotel, still using her Gina Martin passport, while David’s cab dropped him a short distance away at the Four Seasons. As he checked in, using the phony name on the Israeli passport, he kept glancing over his shoulder, across the lobby, expecting another Iranian or one of Madame Blanc’s West African guards to burst through the front entrance.
In the elevator, a different thought took hold. He was playing a powerful hunch in coming to London with Sagit. What if he proved to be wrong? What if they didn’t use Victor or London this time? He grew worried thinking about it.
A long, hot shower relaxed him. He picked up the phone and called Sagit’s cell phone. “Listen, Gina Martin,” he said when she answered. “We haven’t seen each other since Paris, and I heard you were in London. I was wondering if you might like to drop by the Four Seasons for a nightcap?”
“Did something happen?” She asked nervously.
“No,” he said playfully. “I just can’t stand working so closely with you, and not being with you at night. It’s killing me.”
She hit the off button on her phone.
Well, no harm in trying, he thought. He climbed into bed naked, thinking about her. The cool sheets felt good against his weary body, but he still couldn’t sleep.
Half an hour later, his cell phone rang. It was Sagit. “Your theory was right,” she said, a little breathless. “I just got a call from a friend back home.”
“You want to come over and tell me about it in person?”
“I don’t know,” she said hesitantly.
“I mean, just to talk business.”
She was still reluctant. Where would it lead with him this time? “Only for a few minutes.”
“That’s all. I promise.”
He put on a heavy terry-cloth bath robe and waited for her.
Her face was aglow with excitement when she arrived. “My friend at El Al just called. They tapped into the computers of all the carriers with Paris-to-London service.”
“And?”
“Victor Foch is on a four p.m. Air France flight tomorrow that goes into Heathrow.”
“Home run,” he said. She looked at him puzzled. “It’s an American expression. Baseball. It means we scored.”
“It also means that we have a lot to do to get ready for his arrival.”
“And a whole day to do it,” he said mischievously. He walked over and kissed her softly on the lips.
She pulled away from him and backed up to the wall. “C’mon, David, this is really crazy.”
He moved toward her, letting his robe open in the front. He kissed her again, while unbuttoning her beige silk blouse.
She could feel his penis, already erect, pressing against her cotton skirt. “We should wait,” she protested weakly, “until this is all over.”
He unzipped her skirt in the back, pushed it down to the floor, and slipped his right hand into her already wet panties. “I’ve learned that in this life you can never afford to put off wonderful things. Who knows about tomorrow.”
With his left hand, he unsnapped her bra, and then began to stroke her breasts gently while kissing her. All of her better judgment melted way. She surrendered herself entirely to him.
After making love, they fell asleep in each other’s arms. A couple of hours later, she awoke. Quietly, she dressed and slipped out of the room.
On the bureau she left him a note that read: “At eleven o’clock be at the northwest corner of St. James Park.”
* * *
By the time Victor’s plane lifted off at Orley Airport, Sagit and David had everything in place in London. Mindful of the slip-up in Daphna’s escape from the bakery in Paris, Sagit had three teams of agents armed with sophisticated telecommunications equipment to follow Victor’s cab. They each had a copy of one of Sagit’s photographs of Victor, who had been code-named Vicky.
Meantime, David paced anxiously in his room at the Four Seasons, eyeing the cell phone on the desk.
When it rang, he got it on the first ring.
“Vicky just walked into the Dorchester,” Sagit said.
Her voice was all business. He had a fleeting thought about last night. Then he answered her in kind. “It figures. That’s the Saudis’ club in London. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t forget to hook up the two-way radio I gave you.”
He touched the center of his white shirt, behind the tie, and felt the wireless microphone that was taped to his chest. Inside his right ear he had a small hearing device that resembled a tiny white button. Attached to his belt was what looked like an ordinary pager. The entire system was wireless—and connected with an identical one Sagit and the other members of her team were wearing.
“It’s already in place.”
“Just don’t get too close until I tell you Vicky’s gone.”
> “I’m not an idiot, and I’m not that rusty.”
* * *
Waiting in a car parked on Curzon Street, a block from the Dorchester, Sagit tapped her foot nervously against the rubber floor mat in the front passenger seat. She was wearing a beige fur coat over a black velvet miniskirt and a snug white cashmere sweater. Heavy makeup was caked on her face. On her head, she had a blond wig. Outside, the night air was clear and chilly. Rain and fog were expected to move in later.
“What’s going on in there?” she asked impatiently.
“It’s only been three minutes and twenty seconds since Vicky went inside,” Gadi, the driver, answered her in Hebrew.
“It seems like an hour.”
“Nothing’s happened yet. Ariel will let you know. He’s...”
Suddenly, she heard Ariel’s voice in her earphone.
“Vicky’s in the bar off the lobby on the right. He sat down at a table with an Arab.”
“Civilian or military?”
“Saudi air force uniform. A captain, I think. No name plate on his uniform.”
“What are they doing?”
“They ordered drinks. They’re talking.”
“What about?”
“Give me a break, Sagit. I’m at the newsstand across the lobby.”
Gadi didn’t want to run the heater in the car while they were parked. Her fingers were numb from the cold. She rubbed them together and said, “what’s happening now?” There was a long pause. “Well, Ariel? Tonight?”
“Drinks came. Champagne for Vicky. Whoops, there it goes.”
She was alarmed. “There goes what?”
“The Saudi had a brown folder on the floor at his feet. He just kicked it under the table. It’s now resting at Vicky’s feet.”
“Home run,” she said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Forget it. What are they doing?”
“Talking.”
There were several minutes of silence. Then Ariel said, “Vicky’s getting up and leaving the table. He’s heading toward the front door of the hotel.”
“And the Saudi captain?”
“Still sipping his drink.”
“Good boy. It’s show time.”
She adjusted her blond wig, reached for the car door and said to the driver, “How do I look, Gadi?”
“Like a London tart.”
“An expensive one?”
“More than I can afford.”
She threw him a kiss and opened the door.
“Be careful. Some of those guys play rough.”
Gadi’s comment made her smile. He was just a kid, twenty-one years old. She had been turning tricks before he was born—a fact she never let herself forget. It’s good to remember whence you came, she thought. It helps you to evaluate where you are.
She turned the corner and sauntered along Park Lane toward the main entrance of the Dorchester. On the way she passed Victor, waiting for a cab. He looked her over, and she gave him a soft smile. For an instant she thought he might proposition her, but he remembered the folder in his hand, gripped it hard and climbed into a cab.
Inside the hotel, she strolled into the bar just off the lobby and sat down at a table about ten yards away from the Saudi. When she took off her coat, she watched him watch her as her short skirt rode halfway up on her thighs.
There were only a couple of other patrons in the bar. In one corner, two emaciated elderly men, their skin dotted with liver spots and each wearing the same school tie, sipped martinis and discussed life in India when it was still a British colony. In another corner a pianist, a middle-aged man from the West Indies, with sad, tired eyes, tapped out an old Frank Sinatra tune. She ordered a glass of white wine and waited for the captain to make his move.
It took him less than five minutes to cross over to her table. “Would you like some company?” he asked awkwardly.
“How could I turn down a good-looking army officer?” she replied and pointed to the chair across from her.
“I’m an air force captain,” he said in heavily accented English as he sat down. “My name is Naif.”
“You mean, you fly those big jet airplanes?”
“The F-15 is the finest plane in the world,” he said, gleaming with pride. “and I’m the best. Nobody can catch me when I open it up.”
She gave him a thumbs-up sign. “I always wanted to ride in one of those babies, but it must be scary.”
“I’ve got nerves of steel. Danger doesn’t bother me.” he boasted. “Maybe I’ll take you for a ride some time.”
“God, I’d love that.”
When it comes to impressing women, she thought, men can be so stupid. Suddenly there was a commotion in the lobby. Two bellmen were wheeling a huge cart filled with packages from Chanel, Valentino, Tiffany, Escada, Gucci and other Bond Street shops. Behind the cart, a Saudi princess, her face unveiled, was barking at the bellmen to be careful because there were china and glass in some of those packages.
“A little shopping spree.” Sagit said.
Her Saudi officer looked down at the table. The disgust was visible in his eyes, but he didn’t say a word.
When the caravan had finally disappeared into the elevators, he looked up at Sagit and asked: “What do you do?”
She rolled her tongue over her lips. “Oh, a little of this and a little of that.”
“Are you from London?”
“From Holland. I’ve only lived here two years.”
He was watching her tongue and fantasizing. “I’ve never been to Holland. What’s it like?”
“Looser than here. The British are an uptight bunch. At least on the surface. In private, some of them can be pretty wild. If you know what I mean.”
He smiled. “Can I buy you another drink?”
“If you’d like to, but not here. This place is BORING.”
He was delighted that she wanted to go with him. If he played his cards right, she might end up in his bed tonight. “Where would you like to go?”
“There’s a private gambling club not far from here. The White Elephant. We can have dinner, too. I’m starving.”
“I’d like to do that.”
She hugged herself. “It’s chilly outside. You want to go up and get a coat?”
“Actually,” he said, “I think I’ll go up and change into civilian clothes, if you don’t mind waiting.”
“I’ve got nothing but time tonight, honey.”
He glanced at the check resting on the table. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a hotel room key attached to a heavy brass ring on which the number 417 was carved in dark letters. With a flourish, he signed his name and room number on the check and stood up. “You won’t run away while I’m gone, will you?”
“I’m just going to powder my nose in the ladies’ room.” She touched his cheek and let her hand linger there for an instant. “Promise to be here when you get back.”
She watched him enter the elevator before she went into the ladies’ room. When she was inside a toilet stall, she unbuttoned her blouse and whispered directly into the microphone taped between the two cups of her bra.
“David, how much of that did you hear?”
He was in a car outside of the hotel. “The whole thing,” he replied dryly. “You played the part well. Very convincing.”
His voice was so strained. Was he thinking about how she had seduced him in Paris, that first time? “Thanks.”
“When he comes down, I’ll be near the desk and spot his room number when he drops off the key.”
“No need to do that. His room number is 417. I saw the key.”
“Our plan was brilliant. That was easy.”
“It was too easy,” Sagit said ruefully.
“You’re never happy. What’s worrying you now?”
“We better be careful. Somebody could be setting us up.”
“You worry too much.”
“He practically handed me his room key. That smells bad. We could be in for a rough even
ing.”
“Then make sure Ariel and Murray stick close to you.”
“Why don’t you take one of them for backup on the fourth floor?”
“Never used backup in my life. I’m too old to start now.”
David entered the hotel and took a seat at the bar. He ordered a glass of tonic and waited patiently. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Saudi captain, now dressed in a business suit, and Sagit leave the hotel. That was his signal. Trying to appear nonchalant, he walked along the bank of elevators and slipped into an open door. Quickly, he pressed for the fourth floor and the elevator began to move.
Room 417 was in a corner at the far end of the hall. David trod softly down the plush royal blue carpet. If he was being set up, as Sagit had said, then what? Would Madame Blanc be sitting in the room waiting for him with a couple of her West African guards? Or would it be Victor with a couple of his goons? And what would David say? “Gee, sorry, I must have the wrong room.” Or, “just checking the minibar.”
To make matters worse, he realized that he wasn’t armed—not even a simple pocket knife. His plan had been brilliant, all right, a brilliant way to put himself in a noose.
In the old days, he would never have been in a situation like this. I’m just too old for this business, he thought sadly. It’s a young man’s game.
Walking softly, he managed to shrug off those thoughts. The risks tonight were worth taking, he told himself. Inside the room, the Saudi captain might have left behind papers that would provide David with a lead as to who was heading up the coup in his country. At the very least, he would learn the captain’s name, and most likely his air force unit. That would be a powerful lead.
The corridor was deathly still as he stopped in front of the door to 417 and listened carefully. Not a sound came from the other side of the dark wooden door.
With moist hands he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a set of the narrow pieces of metal, joined to a ring, the standard burglar’s tool that he had been taught by the Company to use in picking locks. While his fingers worked slowly and methodically, his ears were listening for any sound. In less than a minute, he felt the lock roll over. He put the metal ring back in his pocket and slowly opened the door a crack. The room was pitch dark. Cautiously, he opened the door all the way and stepped inside.
