by Judith Gould
The old man's grip was dry and firm. 'Let us only hope that I can cut through red tape as swiftly as you.'
Najib turned to Dani and held out his hand, but Dani made no move to shake it. After a moment Najib let it drop to his side. 'I cannot expect you to like me, Mr. ben Yaacov,' he said, seeing them to the door. 'I hope, however, that, given time, we may perhaps become friends.'
He stood in the open doorway. 'A car is waiting for you downstairs. You have my number. I will wait here for your call.'
When they were out of earshot, he added softly in Hebrew, 'Shalom.'
'You,' Schmarya said pointedly as the chauffered car pulled to a stop on the tarmac beside the chartered 737, 'have been abnormally quiet.' He closed his mouth as the chauffeur came around and held the rear door open. Waving away the solicitous hands and grunting, the old man ducked out on his own. Dani emerged behind him, and together they climbed the boarding steps. The sun was slipping down and the magenta-and-orange sky painted the silver wings in a soft pastel glow.
'You look like a man for whom the world has come to an end,' Schmarya said with a touch of asperity.
Dani glared at him. 'Hasn't it?'
Schmarya sighed. Dani had become like a simmering volcano. He'd spoken hardly a word during the entire ride from Famagusta.
'I know it's too early to celebrate, Dani,' he said quietly, 'but you should be happy that Daliah at least stands a chance now. Without Mr. al-Ameer, we would surely never see her again. Did you give that any thought?'
'You've always had a soft spot for the al-Ameers, haven't you?' Dani snapped savagely, and pushed his way past a smiling stewardess into the plane.
Schmarya nodded apologetically at the woman and sighed again. No matter what he said or did, Dani was in no mood to be cheered up. He could put his finger on the precise moment something inside his son-in-law had snapped—the moment Najib al-Ameer had announced his love for Daliah.
'Would he prefer the man wasn't in love with her, and wouldn't help her?' he mumbled under his breath as he went inside the plane and sank into the big leather armchair facing Dani's. Despite himself, as he glanced around, he had to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Someone had done a major overhaul on the interior of the jet. This was nothing like a commercial airliner. It was all high style: sleek, sparkling, and sophisticated.
Schmarya tightened his lips. It rankled that the one time in his life he was surrounded by luxury, he couldn't even sit back and enjoy it. Opposite him, Dani had already strapped himself in and was glowering out at the sunset.
The lithe stewardess approached, smile in place. 'We will be taking off immediately. Shall I get you gentlemen a drink?'
Dani shook his head without removing his gaze from the window.
The stewardess looked at Schmarya. 'And you, sir?'
Schmarya shook his head. 'Nothing, thank you.' As she started to turn away, he cleared his throat. She glanced questioningly over her shoulder. 'Tell me, miss. Is it possible to make a telephone call from this plane?'
'Of course. The moment we are airborne, I will bring you a telephone.' She smiled nicely. 'If you'll give me the number now, I will be able to place the call without delay.'
Ten minutes later, as the coast of Cyprus was dropping away below them, Schmarya listened to the strangely distorted ringing tone. It sounded tinny and weak and far away.
'Ken,' a voice answered curtly after the fourth ring. 'Yes.'
'My friend,' Schmarya said cautiously. 'What would you say to a cup of coffee at the same place where we met last time?'
There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Finally Chaim Golan spoke. 'So. It has come to that, has it?'
'I will tell you all about it. Could you make it in an hour and a half?'
Golan grunted. 'Where are you? It sounds like the bottom of a rubbish bin.'
Schmarya laughed. 'I'm in-flight. An hour and a half, then.'
'In-flight.' Chaim sounded impressed. 'Fancy schmancy. If we don't watch it, you will soon get too grand for the rest of us, Schmarya.' And with that, he rang off.
Schmarya signalled to the stewardess and handed her the phone. Then he, too, stared out the window. As he watched, the light drained completely from the sky and everything became dark velvet.
It was really not much of a flight: a steep ascent followed by a steep descent. Up and down. But between Dani's sulky mood and his own worries over the outcome of his upcoming meeting with Chaim Golan, it was the longest forty-five minutes Schmarya had ever endured.
He was glad when the plane put down at Ben-Gurion.
'You go on home,' he told Dani when they climbed into a cab. 'Just drop me off on Dizengoff Street.'
Dani nodded. He was still in no mood to speak. He was hoping it wasn't true that Daliah and Najib al-Ameer were in love with each other.
Now that the sweltering day had become a cool, breezy night, Dizengoff Street teemed even more than it had during the day. It seemed that everyone was out taking advantage of the breezes, and at the Kassit Café and its rival, the Rowal, every tiny table was occupied. Sounds of intense conversation and the metallic chimes of cutlery on china merged with the ever-present tinkling of glasses. Headlights and tail lights, streetlights and neons, bicycle lamps and floodlit marquees—it was a perpetual kaleidoscope of patterns and colours. Schmarya took a sip of his rosé wine and listened. From somewhere behind him he could hear impassioned youthful voices rising as someone formulated a petition that had to do with Soviet Jewry.
It seemed to him that he and Chaim had sat in silence amid the sounds and lights swirling all around them for far too long already, and he was finding it difficult to be patient. He was only too aware of each second as it ticked by—precious seconds which raced inexorably toward the countdown of Daliah's fate.
Chaim Golan was still thinking, and Schmarya waited, knowing better than to rush the head of the Mossad.
Finally Golan shifted in his chair. His eyes sparkled merrily, but his voice was pained. 'There is no time to call a special meeting and argue this case.'
Schmarya shook his head. 'It has to be tomorrow night. He has set it up to occur then, and the timetable cannot be altered.'
Golan pursed his lips. 'What impression did you get from him?' he asked. 'Is he like the newspapers make out? Could this be some kind of adventure to alleviate a rich man's boredom?'
'Not at all. He is quite serious about this. He wants Abdullah stopped.'
Golan swore under his breath. 'Mecca! The Wailing Wall! St. Peter's!' He shook his head angrily. 'It proves what we have known all along. Abdullah is mad. He should have been terminated a long time ago. We would have all been much better off.'
Schmarya shook his head. 'All those euphemisms. Why can't anybody in the intelligence services use real words, like "murder" or "assassinate"? Terminate!' He snorted.
Golan chose to ignore that. 'It's too bad we have so little time,' he said. 'From what you tell me, it sounds like we should mount a full-scale operation. Attacking a hundred trained terrorists on their own ground with only a handful of men is . . . well, suicidal.'
'We have the element of surprise,' Schmarya pointed out.
'That is about all we have,' Golan countered dryly.
Schmarya put his glass down and leaned toward him. 'How many men, Chaim?' he demanded in a whisper. 'How many can you come up with?'
'Fifteen. Twenty.' Golan shrugged. 'Thereabouts. Some will not be available, others might be out of the country.' He sighed and shook his head. 'They are bad odds for good boys, Schmarya. Very bad odds.'
'But they are well-trained. They are the best of their kind in the world.'
'All the more reason not to waste them senselessly!'
Schmarya stared at him. 'You yourself just admitted that anything is worth it if we can stop Abdullah. You're not going to throw this chance away, are you? It's the opportunity of a lifetime!'
'Then you trust Najib al-Ameer.'
Schmarya nodded. 'I believe he is sincere. It is
as important for him to get rid of Abdullah as it is for us. In fact, we have much in common; many of his reasons are the same as ours.'
Golan grunted. 'Then why was he so involved with that hotbed of terrorists for so long, I ask you? For years, it was his money and his shipping routes that kept Abdullah in business.'
Schmarya looked surprised. 'Then you know all about him.'
Golan's face was expressionless. 'We've been keeping an eye on him,' he said evasively.
Schmarya gave a bark of a laugh. 'How thick is that dossier?'
'You'll keep your wondering to yourself,' Golan advised grimly.
'What I can't understand is, if you found out so much, then why didn't you put a stop to him?'
'You know why.' Golan gestured irritably. 'He's untouchable. Nothing could be proven. Just because arms are shipped on his freighters and planes and large sums of money are channelled through a maze of Swiss accounts doesn't necessarily prove anything against him. Of course, we know it's him, but we'd have to prove it. He's no fool, I can tell you that. He's been wise enough to distance himself so that if the shit ever hits the fan, it stops short of splattering him.'
'He told me he wants out of the PFA.'
'I can't imagine why.' Golan's voice was heavily sarcastic. 'Funny, how people who make a deal with the devil always find out too late that when you deal with the devil, you end up in hell. You'd think they'd get wiser earlier on, wouldn't you?'
'Chaim . . .' Schmarya said, a troubled look on his face.
Golan sighed heavily. 'All right, all right,' he said. 'Against my better judgment, the answer is yes. I'll round up the men and weapons immediately. Just remember—' he wagged a cautioning finger—'for all practical purposes, this is a private endeavour. We have no knowledge about the attempt. Should one or more of our boys die, we will not acknowledge they are ours. And if we do get Daliah out, remember: not a word to the press about what really happened. We say it was a moderate splinter group of Abdullah's which attempted a coup, and that they released her. Is that understood?'
Schmarya nodded and held his gaze. 'I'm grateful for your decision, Chaim,' he said. 'There is just one more thing, Najib al-Ameer requests immunity.'
'Immunity! A woman's been kidnapped and a man has been killed!'
'Daliah won't press charges—'
'And Elie Levin's death? Are we supposed to just forget that?'
'Under the circumstances, it might be wise. True, Najib al-Ameer's been involved with Abdullah. But it was Abdullah's men who did the killing.'
'Schmarya, sometimes you try my soul.'
'And you, you old putz? You don't try mine?'
The head of the Mossad shrugged.
Chapter 22
In the Almoayyed palace:
In her second-floor suite, Daliah paced restlessly. She wore a pair of floppy silk lounging pyjamas she had found in the closet, and she had fashioned her long hair into a single thick long braid that hung down her back. That way, she figured, her mane wouldn't get in the way of things. Earlier in the day, Khalid had dropped by, ostensibly to check up on her, and had whispered that if a rescue attempt was made, she should be prepared for it to be that very night. After that bit of news, there was no way she could hope to get any sleep. She didn't even try. Her nerves were too wound up. . . .
Monika yelled and kicked. Slashed her flattened hands through the air so that they blurred and whistled. Kicked with the other foot. Advanced. Yelled. Withdrew. She was sweating up a storm. Whenever possible, she practised her judo and karate twice a day—in the morning right after she got up, and at night, just before bedtime. It pleased her that her reactions were better than ever. . . .
Khalid swallowed cupfuls of cold strong black coffee. He could have used sleep, but he had long ago found that his reactions were always better if he didn't sleep right before a mission. It took him too long to wake up fully, and tonight, of all nights, he didn't dare be groggy. . . .
At the far end of the palace compound, Hamid tiptoed around the utility room in one of the outbuildings and shone a powerful flashlight around. The thousands of thin, colour-coded wires baffled him. He didn't know which ones to disconnect, so he decided to be on the safe side and disconnect them all. His hands shook and he broke out in a cold sweat as he began tearing all the wires loose, praying that a contingency alarm wasn't hooked up to any of the wires he was pulling. He was sure that bells would be sounding any minute. . . .
Ghazi stirred from his sleep, lumbered groggily into one of the bathrooms, urinated sloppily and wandered back to his bed, where he fell back into a soundless, dreamless sleep. . . .
Surour was in the other bathroom, sitting on one of the two travertine toilet seats. His semi-automatic rifle was at his side, and his bandaged right hand was swelling up worse, but it was a pain he could bear. His chest swelled with pride. He was guarding his master while he showered. . . .
Under the twelve steaming shower jets which crashed on him from all four walls, Abdullah was feeling satisfied with himself. As he soaped himself vigorously, visions of glory filled his mind. It had already occurred to him that the Jewish actress was a chain around his neck and that the holy war was far more important. Tomorrow Daliah Boralevi would be shot and buried in the sand. . . .
Somewhere over Jordan:
Najib entered the dark cockpit of the 727-100 and took over co-pilot duties for a while. Long ago, he had discovered that helping to fly the big jet relaxed him and soothed his nerves. On this night, however, sitting in front of the multicoloured lights and glowing dials, he was discovering that for once it was only making him more tense. . . .
Dani was in one of the compact toilets, smearing camouflage gel over his face. He cursed as the jet hit turbulence. He was not in the least bit surprised to find that his skin was clammy and his hands were shaking. Not only was this suicidal mission fraying his nerves, but ever since he had been shot down by the Germans during the war, with his plane exploding in midair, it was all he could do to board a plane. . . .
Schmarya felt his pulse tripping, and knew without checking that his blood pressure had risen dangerously. He glanced around the luxuriously funished cabin and wondered for the hundredth time whether any of them stood a chance of surviving. The odds were almost five to one. Against. . . .
* * *
And in Jerusalem:
Chaim Golan was feeling the wrath of a head of state. The meeting was informal, unofficial, and took place in the book-lined library of the prime minister's house. Chaim was beginning to wish he had turned down Schmarya Boralevi's request. Or better yet, that he'd never even heard of him.
The prime minister sat silently on a comfortable overstuffed chair. Telephone lines to key people in the government were open, and the military had been put on full alert. Otherwise, there was nothing to do but wait. . . .
At its cruising altitude of 35,000 feet, the jet left Jordanian air-space and entered the skies of Saudi Arabia.
Chapter 23
'See anything yet?' Dani asked as the clock inched past two-twenty-five a.m.
'No.' Schmarya shook his head. Shielding the glare from the bright cabin with his cupped hands, he was peering out the square Perspex window. All he saw was blackness, blackness, and yet more blackness. The jet was streaking above the Rub' al-Khali, the Empty Quarter, and it lived up to its name. For the last two hours, there had not been a single light to be seen anywhere below. He glanced at his watch: ETA was in twenty minutes.
Turning away from the window, he pushed the control button on the side of his seat, which slowly swivelled the chair around, and glanced about the cabin. If it hadn't been for the deadly seriousness of the mission, it would have made for an extraordinarily amusing sight. Seated around the flying Arab palace were seventeen crack Israeli commandos, volunteers all, and all with faces smeared black and bodies encased in tight black stretch jumpsuits. They looked, he thought, more like futuristic chimney sweeps than commandos on a live-or-die mission. Only there was nothing amusing
about it—a fact which the presence of the one man not in black confirmed. He was the Israeli military surgeon accompanying the mission. He would remain on the plane during the assassination-andrescue attempt and treat any of the wounded men on the return flight. Schmarya felt an inordinate pride. He was honoured to be among them. They were a group who believed in taking care of their own.
At the moment, everything seemed to be on a forward slant, and the plane was shaking. The turbulence increased as they descended into warmer air. On the floor were Uzi submachine guns, American M16-A1's, portable shoulder rocket launchers, flamethrowers, and an array of other greasy, high-tech West German, Soviet, and Israeli weaponry. They were ready to be grabbed up the instant before touchdown, and in the turbulence, they clattered and rattled metallically against one another.
Schmarya swivelled his seat further around and looked over at Dani, seated on the other side of the low table they shared. 'Nervous, Dani?' Schmarya asked in a low voice.
Dani raised his head. He was a strange sight—all black face, white eyes, and white teeth. 'Nervous?' he asked. There was just the slightest hesitation. 'I suppose so.' He gave a tight little smile. 'Yes.'
'I am nervous too. If it gives you any comfort, think of the old days. It's like bicycle riding: I don't think you can ever lose your touch. You used to be one of the best, you know.'
'I'm old now.'
Schmarya laughed. 'You're young. I'm the one who's old. Too old to be playing war games, and far too old to dress up like it's Halloween.' Oh, yes, he thought with satisfaction, Dani would be all right.
Najib, also black-faced to melt into the night, was making his way aft from the cockpit. He stopped at Schmarya's seat. 'Captain Childs has just contacted the helicopter. It is in position five miles south of the palace. He will radio them again exactly five minutes before we touch down. That way it will arrive simultaneously with us.'
