by Gregg Loomis
Lang did so. Inside were two SIG Sauer P226s, two spare clips, loaded, and a belt clip holster.
A pistol in each hand, he walked back to where Jacob was unwrapping what looked like a child's chemistry set. "I appreciate somebody's thoughtfulness, but two guns? That somebody must have thought I was the Lone Ranger."
Jacob straightened up from his package and came over to inspect both weapons carefully. "That makes me...?"
"Tonto."
"Sodding Tonto." He took the automatic in Lang's right hand. "This is for me." "There's a difference?"
Jacob told him.
"Sounds like you have a plan."
Jacob nodded. "That I do, lad. But first let's see what in the nature of sustenance might have been left for us."
In the small kitchen Lang started to ask about the meat in the sandwiches but thought better of it. From previous experience, he knew the cold beer had to be better than the astringent Israeli wine.
Jacob spread a map on the Formica of the tabletop, anchoring it north to south with a plate and a beer bottle. "Here we are"—he pointed—"and here's Zwelk's kibbutz."
Even though he was aware of how small Israel was, Lang was surprised at the proximity. "Looks like it's not more than sixty, seventy kilometers."
Jacob squinted. "Pretty close. It's less than one kilometer from the Gaza Strip."
"Why would anyone want to live there? I mean, you're right next to a bunch of Palestinians who want to kill you."
Jacob swallowed the rest of a sandwich. "Which means you don't have a lot of Jewish neighbors to snoop into whatever you're doing. Besides, since the government removed Jewish settlers from Gaza and put up a fence, the Arabs have been more or less peaceful. Then there was the war in the summer of 'oh-six. Although that was mostly along the Lebanon border, it brought in U.N. peacekeepers, quieted Hamas and Hezbollah down a bit. All in all, I'd say Zwelk has got himself an ideal place."
Lang was still studying the map. "Ideal defensively, anyway."
His BlackBerry beeped.
"Yes, Sara?"
"I spent the morning following up on tracking Ms. Warner."
"And?"
"She hasn't shown up for work since a little over a week ago. Two days after anyone there saw her she called in, said her mother was in the hospital after a car wreck and she wanted to take vacation time to be with her."
"And that's it?"
"Not exactly. I called the DOJ in Denver, the city where she worked before coming to Atlanta. I said I was her mother and was trying to locate her."
"And?"
"Her mother was in an auto accident, all right. Only it was ten years ago and fatal."
Lang sat down at the kitchen table. "As always, you've been very helpful. Thanks."
"That's not all," Sara's voice protested before he could disconnect. "You got a very strange e-mail today."
"I get strange e-mails every day, mostly from spammers trying to sell worthless stock."
"Not this one. It said ..." There was the sound of tapping keys. "Yeah, here it is. I quote, Alicia asks you come soonest.'"
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Lang thought a moment. "Reply. Ask where I should come and when. Anything you can do to delay."
"Like saying you're out of town and will respond when you return?"
"That's as good as any other reply."
Lang glanced at his watch, estimating how long the conversation had lasted and wondering if Zwelk's eavesdropper was recording it. "Call me if anything else happens."
"Lang, before you go, the mayor said to tell you—"
He disconnected.
Jacob put down a beer bottle. "Bad news?"
"Only a confirmation that the woman's been missing from work."
Jacob lifted a shaggy eyebrow and Lang explained.
Jacob raised the beer bottle to the light. "Already empty. Don't understand why we Jews can't bottle it in a proper pint." He looked at Lang. "At least you know she's alive. If Zwelk intended her harm, there'd be no reason to keep her once he had your attention."
Lang finished his beer. "You're a real comfort."
"I try." He paused. "Oh, I forgot to give you this. Our limo driver handed it to me as we got out."
He extended to Lang a photograph of the kibbutz.
"It was taken this morning."
Lang studied it for a full minute. "So? What's different?"
Jacob came around the table and pointed to the lower left corner. "See?"
Lang moved the photo back and forth. "See what?"
"There's a figure of a person there. From the high angle we can't be sure if it's a man or a woman. But look at the color of the hair."
Red.
Alicia Warner red.
Jacob was fumbling for his pipe. "Unless there's an abnormal incidence of Jewish carrottops, I'd say we may have found your lady friend."
FIFTY-THREE
Sübahnhof Police Station
Wiedner Gürtel
Vienna
The Next Morning
Chief Inspector Rauch reread the e-mail from Scotland Yard and shook his head. Langford Reilly had been in England only long enough to disappear again, slipping through the much-heralded fingers of the world's most famous police organization. Of course, in dealing with British or American police, suspects frequently went free even after being captured. Writs of habeas corpus, jury trials, rights against self—incrimination—it was a wonder the English-speaking justice system convicted anyone.
Nonetheless, Rauch's superiors had authorized Reilly's extradition for questioning, and the inspector's life would go a lot easier once he had been found, interrogated, and either charged or released. It was as if Rauch himself were responsible for English incompetence.
The one bit of useful information from the Englishman—Fitzwilliam was his name—was that Reilly had entered Great Britain under the name of Couch. A few minutes at the computer confirmed that no such person had passed through customs and immigration anywhere in Europe in the last week or so.
Undaunted, Rauch called up the Web site for Reilly's charitable organization, the Janice and Jeff Holt Foundation. A few minutes later he learned the corporation had a private jet. Another site and a few more minutes revealed that the aircraft was a Gulfstream and its most recent trip had been Paris-Marseilles-Tel Aviv-Atlanta.
Now he was getting somewhere. The Israelis kept careful records of those entering their country.
He stared at the screen, unable to believe what it told him. The jet's international flight plan had been duly recorded and promptly closed on arrival at the noted time. But the space for names of the persons on board was blank. Either the plane had made the trip with no passengers or... or somebody with something to do with Israeli national security had been on board.
What could Reilly have to do with...?
Rauch slid his chair back from his desk and glared at the computer's screen as though it were the one withholding the information.
With almost any European country he could simply call some official, explain his interest in the passengers on that flight, and, more likely than not, get the information.
Not necessarily with the Jews.
First, the Israelis had a bit of a prickly personality to begin with, trusting no one.
Second was the Kurt Waldheim matter.
Kurt Waldheim had been secretary general of the U.N. and was elected president of Austria in 1986. He had become friendly with a number of world celebrities, including a young Austrian who was a minor American movie star, Arnold Schwarzenegger, along with his American wife, a member of the politically connected Shriver family. Waldheim had been in office a short time when someone came up with papers that demonstrated he had not served in the Wehrmacht, regular army, during the war, been wounded, and come home to go to law school, as he
claimed. Instead he had served a full five years in the SS. Worse still, in an Einsatzgruppe that had specialized in rooting out and deporting "undesira
bles."
It had been a diplomatic disaster.
After forty years of Austria's painting itself as the land of pastries, Mozart, and The Sound of Music, the old and hopefully forgotten connection with Nazis had been resurrected. The world started to recall that, although the von Trapp family were Austrian, so was Hitler.
The Jews worldwide screamed bloody murder. The United States listed the president of the sovereign state of Austria as a person to whom entry would be denied.
The Austrians took the view that they and only they elected their national officials. One woman was shown on international television, saying something to the effect that the Jews wanted to run everything but they wouldn't run Austria.
Some wag noted that that was because there were so few left.
World opinion was less than sympathetic.
Austria's relationship with the state of Israel did not benefit. Forty-plus years hadn't done a lot to dim the memory, and relations with Israel were diplomatically correct but far from cordial.
Even so, surely the Jews wouldn't deny a request for extradition of someone involved in a murder investigation, particularly someone who was hardly in a position to claim political persecution or some such. If he were to act as though he knew Reilly was on that flight, surely even the Israelis would be obligated to honor his request.
He picked up the phone.
FIFTY-FOUR
Kibbutz Zion
Near Sderot on the Gaza Border
The Next Morning
Alicia's days and nights seemed to merge. Perhaps it was the narcotics that had kept her knocked out for a period of time she had yet to measure. More likely it was the sameness of each day here.
Wherever "here" was.
Oh, she knew she was in Israel; the white flag with the blue Star of David told her that. And she surmised she was on some sort of kibbutz of about a hundred and fifty very devout Jews.
When the glassless window in her room was unshuttered, she could see the gullies of eroded hills as barren as those on the moon and, beyond, a very tall wall, behind which she guessed was the sea. The wall seemed to stretch into infinity, as though defining a border. Somewhere between the sandy hills and where she was, the land went green, like an oasis in the desert, which she guessed this was, artificial or natural. She could also see neat rows of towering date palms, arranged in ranks like so many soldiers. Sort of like a pecan grove in Georgia, but the trees here were taller and had leaves only at the top.
So, she guessed this kibbutz was a date farm.
She tried to remember what little she knew about kibbutzes, or, rather, kibbutzim. They were collective farms, communism in practice, where each person, kibbutznik, owned a share of the whole and got a share of the profits. Many, like this one, were populated by a specific sect of Jews. The men here wore hats or those little beanies, had long curls that hung by the sides of their faces like sideburns, and were unshaven. The women rarely appeared outside without scarves covering their heads. Whether this was for religious reasons or only a defense against the constant hot, gritty breeze, she didn't know.
She did know that the long, tin-roofed building was the communal kitchen and dining hall, and that all the other buildings she could see were white stucco with flat roofs. She knew many of the inhabitants spoke English, but none would answer her questions about why she had been brought here.
"Here" wasn't exactly the greatest place she'd ever been, either.
They'd given her clothes, ill-fitting khaki desert shorts, a T-shirt, and underwear, all of which were clearly hand-me-downs.
Like everybody else's.
Not exactly Club Med.
There was no air-conditioning to combat the heat of midday, temperatures so high that even the hardest workers retired to whatever shade they could find or sought a spot under a rotating fan.
No Caribbean cruise, either.
At least the evening brought coolness if not a downright chill.
There was no running water, only a well or cistern filled by some sort of irrigation system, as best she could tell. Every morning she was shaken awake by an old woman. She got up from the cot in her otherwise bare, cell-like room and trudged to the edge of the little settlement to take her turn waiting for a place in the communal women's shower and privy.
Wet herself, turn off the water, soap up, turn the water on to rinse, and shut off the water again.
Like Girl Scout camp.
Two men followed her from her sleeping quarters to the shower house and back again. If the showers had had a window, she might have thought of escape.
But there was no window and no place she knew to escape to.
So, once she dried off and dressed, she was escorted back to her quarters, where the old woman served what Alicia guessed was goat's milk, bland yogurt with chips of fresh fruit in it, and some bitter, black stuff that was supposed to be coffee.
She could leave her room only to go back to the women's privy to go to the bathroom. From the proximity of the desert she guessed water was too valuable to waste on a sewer system, even if the smell was enough to make her dizzy if she had to use the facility in the day's heat.
Her captors did provide her with week-old copies of the International Herald Tribune, USA Today, and some British newspaper. She read every word of each, knowing that once she finished, there would be little else to fill the hours other than looking out of the one window.
For the first few days she had wept continuously, whether as an aftereffect of the drugs, pure despair, or both, she never knew. Then she resolved to quit acting like a ninny, as her mother used to say. She wasn't going to give these people the satisfaction of seeing her weep. Instead she adopted a haughty manner that expressed contempt for her captors—as much contempt as her situation allowed, anyway.
The change in her manner produced no ascertainable change in their treatment of her: courteous but aloof. The women still gave her brief smiles, and the men nodded or averted their eyes. Still, no one would tell her where she was, nor why she was here. She supposed that if they meant her any harm, she would have already been subjected to it.
She guessed it was her fifth or sixth day of captivity today. For lack of anything better to do, she was looking out of her window, waiting for the stack of newspapers. She could see the only road to this place, a sandy two-lane that looked as though it had had oil or tar spilled on it regularly to keep down the dust.
In fact, it looked like that was what was happening now. Two men, their clean-shaven faces announcing that they weren't from the kibbutz, were in an old tanker truck, driving slowly along the fence that separated kibbutz property from the road.
Odd.
She had assumed the dirt track was all part of the collective, since she had seen men from the kibbutz working on it. But the men in the truck were definitely spraying something on the sandy surface.
The one in the passenger seat turned, looking in her direction. Too far away to make out the details of his face, yet... There was something familiar about him, something she couldn't quite place.
If he wasn't from this kibbutz, maybe he could help if he knew she was being held prisoner here. Should she scream? Try to climb through the window and make a run for it?
Something moved behind her, and the old woman entered the room, scowling. In a step she was at the window, reaching out to close the wooden shutters.
Alicia had to try very hard not to start weeping again.
"I swear, that was her," Lang said.
Jacob was too busy keeping the truck on the narrow sand road. "It's eyes like a bleedin' hawk you'd have to have to recognize her at this distance."
Lang sank back against the tattered upholstery. "If it wasn't her, why would they be so quick to close the shutters?"
Jacob took a hand from the wheel and started to explore his shirt pocket. The truck lurched to the side before he grabbed the wheel with both hands again. "Damn me if I know. These kibbutz Jews are peculiar sometimes. Maybe this lot doesn't believe
in women showing their faces to outsiders."
Lang leaned forward to adjust the holster in the small of his back. "So far, no surprises. The layout is just like the satellite picture, jammed up against the Gaza wall. Except it didn't show the wire fence, and I had no idea those hills, sand dunes, whatever, were so high."
Jacob found a place to turn around and did so. "I hope they appreciate our oiling down their road for them."
"They should. It cost us enough. Paying those road workers to 'lose' their truck for a couple of hours wasn't cheap."
Jacob was straightening out the wheel before resuming the same slow pace. "Right you are, but at least we know where the irrigation pipe comes in."
"Incredible," Lang said, "bringing water in all the way from the Jordan River! That's, what, fifty miles or so? Looks like a desalination plant would be more efficient."
"I'm sure they have one of those, too. Problem is, a desal plant big enough to water the crops and supply those blokes' needs would have to be as large as the kibbutz itself."
Lang shook his head. "Still, bringing water all that distance ..."
"Making the desert bloom, lad, that's what this country's all about. Besides, the Roman aqueducts carried water farther than that." He stopped and pointed. "There's some sort of pumping mechanism that lifts the water up into that water tower so that gravity creates enough pressure to irrigate the crops and support these people."
Lang looked at the tower. It could have come from any small town in America except for the Hebrew characters painted on the side. "What does the Hebrew say?"
"Zion, the name of the kibbutz."
"Zion?"
"Historically, a citadel that was the nucleus of Jerusalem. Also, the ideal nation or society envisioned by Judaism."
"Good choice by nationalist extremists."
This time Jacob succeeded in finding his pipe. He was clenching it between his teeth.
"I wouldn't recommend stopping to fill that thing," Lang said.
"Why not?"
"Because there's a truck right behind us. I'd guess Zwelk wants to know why we're spraying his private road."
