by Gregg Loomis
Jacob leaned forward, the better to see the rearview mirror. "And he's blinking his lights. Think he wants us to stop."
Lang withdrew the SIG Sauer from its holster and slipped it beneath the seat. "You aren't going to outrun 'em. May as well stop and see what they want."
Looking in the passenger-side mirror, Lang saw two bearded men, one on each side, approach the truck. From the way they held the Uzi machine guns, he would have guessed they knew how to use them. This close to Palestinian territory, it would be unusual if they had not been armed. The one on the right stopped a few feet short and wide of the passenger door, a position where Lang would have to fully turn in his seat to make a hostile move. It was a maneuver taught in every police academy in the world.
The other man was speaking with Jacob in what Lang assumed was Hebrew. The tone was even, perhaps friendly. Finally Jacob shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes heavenward, the universal Jewish gesture that could mean anything from sudden enlightenment to total frustration. The man on the other side of the driver's door laughed, shook his head, and started back to his own truck.
"What the hell did you say to him?" Lang wanted to know.
"He wanted to know what we were doing here. I told him we had been assigned to oil down the dirt access roads along Road Four Seventy-seven all the way to the Gaza Strip."
"But we came here on Four Seventy-seven. We turned off a mile or so back."
"That, basically, was what the chap said. He thanked us for slicking down the kibbutz's road." He turned to Lang. "Think I convinced him I'd made a mistake?"
Lang watched the two men in the truck behind. Through the streaked windshield he could see one was talking into a cell phone. "I sure as hell hope so."
FIFTY-FIVE
Near Kibbutz Zion
Seventeen Minutes Later
"You're sure, then, that's her?" Jacob asked from his seat in the sand on the shady side of a hill.
Lang took the binoculars from his eyes. The morning sun was heating the metal quickly enough to make them uncomfortable to hold to his eyes. "Pretty damn sure."
He could hear Jacob tapping the pipe against the heel of his shoe. "'Pretty sure'? Bravo! That's bloody swell! We go charging into this kibbutz, fight our way through the rotters to where you saw this woman, and presto! We find out you made a sodding mistake. Almost worth trying just to hear your apology."
Lang had the glasses to his eyes again. "You're the one who suggested we come out here after seeing a satellite photo of a redhead. Besides, that's why I'm roasting in the sun—trying to make sure we don't screw up."
He heard the sound of a striking match. And then, "You never explained what made you think that lot trying to kill you were Jews. Almost any country might be interested in the powers described in that old manuscript."
The superconductive abilities aren't what they're after."
Lang took the binoculars down again long enough to use a sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face. "As I think I mentioned, I'd bet something very much like that was the basis for the Star Wars defense program President Reagan suggested twenty-five years ago."
"If not the weapons capability, then what?"
"For what the Book of Jereb says."
Jacob briefly pondered that. Then, "What does it have to say that's worth killing people for, other than the secret of the Ark, which you're telling me is no sodding secret after all?"
"It's..."
"It's what?"
Lang had put the glasses to his eyes again. "That's her! She's walking between two men, carrying what looks like... looks like... a towel. Yeah, that's it. She's got a towel and what could be a change of clothes." He reached backward, motioning. "Here, come see for yourself."
"To what end?" Jacob growled. "I've never seen the bird, wouldn't recognize her if she was standing on the balcony at Buckingham Palace."
In his excitement Lang had forgotten. "Of course you wouldn't. Take my word for it, though; that's her."
Jacob's breath whistled through closed lips as he checked his watch. "I make it nearly nine hours before sunset, a long time in the heat."
Lang was still staring through the binoculars. "We can't very well drive back in daylight. Someone'd get suspicious if they saw us there again."
Jacob got to his feet, dusting himself off. "There's a little town, Sderot, about two kilometers the other way, a place we can at least get something cool to drink while we wait. And I've got a bit of tinkering yet to do."
Lang didn't ask; he was well aware of what Jacob's tinkering usually involved.
FIFTY-SIX
Central Police Station
Ibn Gabrel andAriozroy Streets
Tel Aviv
An Hour Later
Captain Kel Zaltov paced around the long table rather than sitting at it. His shirt was showing sweat stains at the armpits despite the frosty chill of overefficient air-conditioning. "I still don't understand why we have to cooperate with some neo-Nazi cop from Austria," he complained. "We owe those krauts nothing; and, far as I can tell, this goy Reilly has done nothing. Besides, he has the blessing of King Solomon Street," he added as an afterthought.
The other man in the room looked as though he might have just stepped from the pages of GQ or Esquire. His dark suit was tailored, his white shirt unwrinkled, and his toe caps shined to a military luster. "I'm not here on behalf on our friends on King Solomon Street," he replied calmly. He intertwined his fingers, resting his hands on the table. "My authority is higher than that."
Zaltov scowled. "I'm a policeman, not a diplomat or politician."
He spit the last word as though it had a bad taste.
That, thought the man in the suit, was one thing they both could agree upon.
The policeman was notorious for his distrust, if not downright hatred, of anything Germanic or Russian. During the decade between 1935 and 1945, each of those two World War II combatants had exterminated the larger part of his family: first the Stalinist purges, then the Nazi pogrom. It was amazing that a man could be so angry over the murders of relatives he had never known. But then, these Jews of Eastern European descent tended to hold grudges for centuries rather than generations. Zaltov was still probably pissed off at the Romans for destroying the temple in Jerusalem in, what, a.d. 70?
"Although unnecessary, I have explained the government's position," the man in the suit said. His voice was becoming frayed along the edges, the sound of a man letting his frustrations show. "Need I do so again?"
Zaltov sat down and stood up again. "Why do I give a shit what a bunch of ass-kissers from the State Department think?"
"That depends on whether you want your pension when you retire next year. You serve, after all, at the pleasure of the Israeli government, ass-kissers included."
The policeman sat again, this time staying put. "Okay, explain again. Maybe I'll listen this time."
The man in the suit nodded slowly, acknowledging the wisdom of the other's decision. "Very well. This Inspector Rauch wants to take into custody a man named Langford Reilly, an American. It seems Mr. Reilly may know something about one or more shootings in Vienna...."
"Like that is our business," Zaltov sneered.
The man in the suit silenced him with a lifted eyebrow. "As our friends from King Solomon Street tell us, Mr. Reilly is accompanied by one of their former employees, a Jacob Annueliwitz, hence the cooperation so far. Both Monsieurs Reilly and Annueliwitz have shown more than a passing interest in a man named Zwelk."
The policeman stood, resuming his pacing. "A patriot, from his file."
"A patriot perhaps. The leader of what amounts to a private army, an armed military force literally next to the Gaza border wall."
"Sounds like a good place for an army to me."
"The government is less than sanguine about troops it does not control, particularly in such a sensitive area."
The policeman snorted. "You mean someone not afraid to stand up to a bunch of fanatical murderers of women and childre
n, someone who doesn't piss their pants for fear the United Nations might speak ill of them? If he's such a threat, why is he allowed to continue?"
"You are aware of the political situation, the narrow coalition by which the prime minister governs. Any action against a right-wing group would precipitate every Arab-hating Jew in the country screaming for the prime minister's head. Or worse, joining this man Zwelk's cause."
"And this is a bad thing because...?"
The man in the suit paused a second, perhaps the indecision of whether the conversation was worth continuing. "The man is an extreme Zionist, a frequent embarrassment to Israel's stance of moderation on the Palestinian question. He was bitterly opposed to the surrender of the occupied territories and the Lebanese cease-fire...."
"Last time I looked, this country allowed freedom of expression."
The other man continued as though he had not heard. "He's suspected in a number of preemptive raids against Palestinian communities, raids that provoked rocket attacks against our citizens."
"Since when did those people need provoking?"
The man in the suit sighed. "Not every rocket launched into an Israeli town, not every suicide bombing is without cause. You've been a policeman long enough to know the news doesn't always tell the whole story."
"And you've been with the government long enough to know it's very careful what it tells the news."
The man in the suit didn't disagree with the observation but continued. "From what I understand, Annueliwitz and Reilly are reconnoitering Zwelk's kibbutz right now."
Zaltov crossed his arms over his chest, body language that didn't exactly signal acceptance. "So, you want me to arrest Reilly the minute he enters the kibbutz and have a look around while I'm there, use the arrest as an excuse to snoop."
"I would prefer not to phrase it that way, but yes. Once you have a legitimate reason to enter private property, you can certainly follow up on anything you find suspicious."
"Like the Gestapo or NKVD."
The diplomat shook his head in resignation. "I don't think they compare."
The policeman smiled, an icy grin without humor. "I'm using my right of free expression."
FIFTY-SEVEN
Terminal Three
Ben Gurion International Airport
That Afternoon
As he stepped into the terminal, Chief Inspector Karl Rauch was met by a man and a woman. They could have been brother and sister, Hansel and Gretel. Each treated him to brilliant, orthodonticaly perfect smiles; each wore what, in the United States, would have been described as "business casual": polo shirts over khakis with knife-sharp creases; and each had that well-scrubbed look of youth, along with optimistic expressions that told Rauch neither had yet learned much about the world they lived in.
The man reached for the inspector's carry-on bag, his only piece of luggage. Though he rarely flew, Rauch had frequently been advised of the capricious nature of baggage once entrusted to the airlines.
The woman shook his hand while holding an ID wallet up for his inspection. "Come with us, Inspector," she said. "No need to waste time standing in line with all the tourists."
"Your German is perfect," Rauch observed as he walked beside her. "Your accent sounds like Berlin?"
"Very close. Potsdam. My grandparents, actually. If you remain long in Israel, you will note that almost every family speaks at least one tongue besides Hebrew. We are a nation of immigrants. Do you make a specialty of languages?"
"In my line of work, it is sometimes useful to recognize a particular dialect."
If the man, Hansel, understood German, he gave no sign of it. Instead he headed into the concourse, Rauch's bag in hand.
Rauch and the woman followed his suitcase. She politely asked the usual meaningless questions required of someone meeting a recently disembarked stranger. This was not exactly the reception a visitor on police business expected. Rauch felt more like a distant relative arriving at a family reunion.
The man in front eased his way past multiple lines of arrivees waiting their turn with customs and immigrations and, probably unknown to most, computerized facial scans by cameras concealed in the ceiling. Just short of the officials' glass booths, Hansel held open an unmarked door. Although the inspector was glad to bypass the bureaucratic traffic jam, he wished he had known the visa he had spent an hour or so securing would not be needed after all.
They entered a room without windows. There were six molded plastic chairs with legs and backs of chrome. Rauch wondered why anyone would go to such effort to make furniture look both so ugly and uncomfortable. Against the far wall was a Formica-topped table. The walls had a yellowish tint, a color someone might have thought cheerful when originally applied. It had since faded to the pigment of old nicotine.
The girl turned to him. "Forgive me for failing to introduce myself earlier. It seemed unwise in public. Lt. Heidi Strassman, Tel Aviv police."
Rauch felt a strong but not exaggerated grip. "You obviously know my name." He faced the man, hand outstretched. "And you?"
The smile was long gone from the young man; nor did he seem interested in shaking hands. "I speak no German," he said in English. "Aaron Gruber. Shin bet, national security."
Rauch withdrew his hand, frowning at the prospect of speaking English. It was not one of his greater achievements. With verbs randomly scattered about instead of neatly stacked at the end of each sentence, verbs that had no real endings, and nondeclension nouns, the language was oral chaos.
In Rauch's experience national security usually equaled some sort of intelligence operation. Why couldn't these people just admit it up front? "Might I ask what your interest in Mr. Reilly is?"
Gruber and Strassman exchanged glances before he spoke. "Your friend Reilly seems to be interested in a person also of interest to Israeli security services." She motioned him to a chair that was every bit as uncomfortable as he had anticipated. "What can you tell us about the American?"
Nothing they didn't already know, as it turned out.
"We intend to execute your request and arrest Mr. Reilly this evening," Gruber continued. "He is near a kibbutz near Gaza. Would you care to join us?"
Actually, Rauch would much rather find a hotel room with a hot shower, cool air-conditioning, and a decent dinner. He was not looking forward to the long return flight with Reilly in custody. But he said, "Of course. Thank you for asking me."
"We will go by helicopter," Gruber announced like a threat.
And it was.
Rauch was hated helicopters. From his limited experience they seemed unstable, bouncing around in the sky so that a man's stomach was in his throat as often as not. Worse, the main rotor was attached by what he understood was called the Jesus nut: If it came loose, you were going to see Jesus very soon.
"Helicopter?" he asked, hoping they could not see the blood he imagined was draining from his face.
"Helicopters," Gruber repeated. Rauch Was sure the young man was enjoying his discomfort. "We have three waiting for us if you're ready, Inspector."
Thoughts of helicopters eclipsed those of dinner. In fact, Rauch was feeling a little nauseated already.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Just Outside Kibbutz Zion
An Hour Later
Prone in the sand, Lang and Jacob watched the kibbutz from a slight rise that gave them a view of most of the compound. Family by family, the inhabitants walked to the dining hall, the last arriving just as the day's last light leached from the western sky. Almost immediately the date trees began to speak, with fronds rustling in the breeze that sprang up from the ocean.
Both men waited a few more minutes until it was totally dark before standing.
"I didn't see anyone on lookout duty," Lang observed, dusting off as much sand as possible.
"This close to the wogs, they'd jolly well have some sort of sentry," Jacob said. "Most likely electronic sensors— visual, motion-detecting, or both."
"I looked pretty close when we drove by in the tr
uck this morning. Didn't see any."
"You wouldn't. They'd be concealed, most likely in those two palm trees at the entrance."
"Easy enough to take care of. And from seeing "someone carry three lunch plates from the mess hall, it's also likely that Alicia has a couple of guards around the clock. Just like we guessed from the satellite shot."
Jacob stooped to pick up a backpack and shifted it onto his shoulders. "As we planned, you handle them. I'll handle diverting everyone else."
Lang took a last look at the lights spilling from open windows before both men started down the hill. He savored the familiar tingle of his scalp, the chill down his spine, the almost narcotic high of pending action. It was a feeling a lawyer and head of a charitable foundation did not often enjoy.
He had missed it.
Just outside the entrance they stopped. Silently, Jacob made a circling motion. Each man walked in a wide arc before returning to the point of beginning.
"You're right," Lang said. "There's something in that tree besides coconuts."
Jacob was studying the trees with the night-vision goggles. He pulled them up on his forehead. "Two small cameras on each, angled to cover anyone going or coming."
Lang squatted, bringing the outline of the kibbutz into focus against the starry sky. "And I suppose the fence is either electrified or has a trip wire."
Jacob put the goggles on again to have a look himself. "Bloody unlikely the fence is charged—too great a risk of killing someone's livestock. We can cut through it."
"That's sure to trip whatever alarm system they have."
"Right you are. Perhaps we can dig under it."
The two approached the triple strands of wire, careful to keep out of the field of view of the tree-mounted cameras.
Lang stooped to reach under the fence. "Shit! Concrete—they've poured cement under the fence. We'd need a jackhammer to dig under it." He stood and looked across the kibbutz. "But I bet their date orchard isn't inside the fence."
