by Ward Larsen
He was not a warrior in the conventional sense. He had never been one to strike out with fists, nor was he physically strong or athletic. Yet he looked for ways to use the weapons that had always served him. Wits and cunning, the ability to manipulate. Those were the instruments he’d use against the vile people who were both his national and personal enemy. Iricha had turned the tables on him, but Zak vowed to never let it happen again. And someday an opportunity for retribution would come.
Early on, he made every attempt to put these troubling thoughts aside in order to focus his considerable talents on a fledgling military career. It got off to a promising start when, as fate would have it, he was assigned to be the supply clerk of a large infantry unit, something akin to placing an arsonist in charge of a fireworks factory. He quickly learned the intricacies of the military bureaucracy and turned them, wherever possible, to his advantage. Within eighteen months, the 6th Infantry Regiment had caviar and the finest Scotch each Thursday afternoon, the commanding officer was riding around in a Mercedes staff car, and corporal Zak had found himself recommended for a commission.
Having never intended to make the military a career, he reconsidered, and decided life as an officer might not be bad, especially in view of his limited prospects outside the service. That in mind, he accepted the promotion, but only with his commander’s personal assurance that he could switch specialties. A career in supply and logistics was tempting, but Zak had already seen its limitations. In choosing a new field, he fell back on one of his estranged father’s favorite maxims — scientia est potestas. Knowledge is power. And so it was, Lieutenant Zak requested, and was granted, appointment to a new division. Aman. Military Intelligence.
For the merchant’s son, it was an atmosphere in which to flourish. Lies and deception were the stock in trade, a veritable playground for Zak’s shrewd mental games. It was also his chance for payback. He felt increasing satisfaction each time he embezzled money from a Hamas bank account, or bribed a shopkeeper in Gaza. Each success brought gratification, but also whet his desire for more. His stock rose quickly in this shadowy corner of the IDF, and his commanders gave him increasing freedom, opportunities for bigger and more meaningful operations. However, here Zak had gotten carried away. He lost sight of the fact that this obtuse branch of the military was still just that — a branch of the military.
Zak hatched a plan to place a bomb at the upcoming meeting of a pro-peace Palestinian group. The bomb wasn’t supposed to go off. It would simply be a dud, one that could be readily identifiable as being of Hamas origin (easy enough, since the Israeli military was constantly defusing and confiscating just such weapons). The resulting in-fighting amongst the Arabs, Zak reasoned, would be a joy to watch.
His commander, a recalcitrant lieutenant colonel, didn’t see it that way. He thought the whole idea absurd, if not downright dangerous, and ordered Zak to kill any further thoughts of it. Two weeks later, a bomb did indeed detonate at the meeting in southern Gaza, and an anonymous caller claimed credit for a rogue offshoot of Hamas.
Zak’s commander launched a ballistic accusation up the chain of command. Things always fall heavier than they rise, and the lieutenant colonel was immediately reassigned and told to shut up. An ominously quiet investigation got underway. Zak, of course, insisted he had nothing to do with planting the bomb, which was true in the most literal sense. He passed a lie detector test with flying colors, an easy thing to do when you understand how they work, and in the end there was scant evidence. Certainly nothing to hang a court-martial on. Still, the military has its ways. The senior leadership was highly suspicious, and Captain Zak was quietly informed that he would never be anything more than Major Zak. He was reassigned to Signals Intelligence Division, or SIGINT, graveyard of careers lost.
Zak’s remaining years in the service seemed professionally quiet. This, however, was not a consequence of his having been idle. In his eyes, the bombing in Gaza was a great success. The Palestinians quarreled and became suspicious of one another. Editorials in the Arab press pointed fingers everywhere. Everywhere except at Israel. If nothing else, Zak’s time in the intelligence world taught him the value of the media, and of public opinion. Time and again, governments made decisions based not on facts, but rather on opinion polls, the mood of the people. This caused Zak to expand his original ideas, and give them one further, devastating twist. He quietly espoused his thoughts to those who had helped in the first attack, along with a few other carefully chosen friends, men who felt as adamantly about the cause as he.
The second operation took place six months after the first. A small car bomb at a pizza shop. An Israeli pizza shop. One Jew killed, two wounded. The headlines were loud, and the Israeli response clear. Helicopter gunships took ten times as many Arab lives. Zak found the success intoxicating, and his group grew larger. More attacks were arranged, but each with the greatest of care. He realized the inherent danger. If his group were ever discovered, the media’s sway that now aided him would deal a massive counterpunch. Israelis attacking Israelis, blaming the Arabs. The world would cringe.
After a dozen attacks in the first three years, Zak began to feel the risks outweighed the benefits. He scaled back, making the strikes big newsgrabbers, but fewer in number, and only when the chance of detection was low. They were also planned to coincide with the occasional efforts at peace, torpedoes to any truce that might give land to the dirty squatters.
Zak muddled through four years in SIGINT before accepting early retirement, with the rank of major, as promised. It was a divorce, in a sense, one that caused both parties to breathe a sigh of relief. By then, his organization was well established. Still young, and with a clear goal in mind, he searched for even more effective ways to manipulate the will of his countrymen. He found it in politics.
The merchant’s son was a natural. All he had to do was tell people what they wanted to hear. Tough words at the Veterans Society fundraiser, suggest peace at the university commencement speech. It took two years to land a seat on the Knesset. There, his career might have stalled among the lawyers, generals, and other merchants’ sons, had it not been for one stroke of luck. Zak managed to tie himself to the coattails of a rising star by the name of Benjamin Jacobs. The timing was impeccable. Within ten years of leaving the service under a cloud, he had become the second most powerful man in Israel, at least on paper. From there, there had only been one place to go.
And here he was. The lights of Paris had faded, along with those of the French countryside. Now he saw nothing but blackness below, and he decided it must be the English Channel, that little strip of water that had so often saved the British from their enemies. Zak wished he had a Channel. One he could throw all the Palestinians into. A chime sounded and he saw the light flashing on his private intercom. He waited a few moments before picking it up casually.
“What is it?”
He recognized the pilot’s voice.
“We’re beginning our descent, Mr. Prime Minister. It might get bumpy and I wanted to make sure you were buckled in.”
“How long until we land?” Zak demanded.
After a slight pause, the pilot replied, “Seventeen minutes, sir.”
The pilot was a colonel in the Israeli Air Force, and had probably received his commission about the same time as one retired Major Ehud Zak. Timing was everything.
“Make it sixteen.” He hung up and smiled.
By coincidence, ten miles to the south another Israeli executive transport, this one much smaller, was climbing as it began its six-hour journey back to Tel Aviv. Inside, Anton Bloch was also talking on a handset, he to a hotel in Casablanca. His expression was both grim and determined.
When Anton Bloch arrived in Tel Aviv there was no limo waiting. Instead, he’d called ahead and his wife was there to give him a ride, escorted by two bodyguards. For all the privileges Bloch would lose, the muscle would be around for many years. No one would particularly care if he were blown to bits, but ex-Directors of Mossad knew far
too many dirty secrets to risk capture.
Bloch was exhausted after the all-night flight from London, and he sat with his wife in the back seat as they went straight to his office. Or what used to be his office. On the way there, the Blochs made a feeble attempt at conversation. They covered the weather, their leaking bathroom sink, and finally ventured to more tender ground, the status of their recalcitrant daughter who had been mucking up her first year at university. The last subject was a sour one, and they both knew he couldn’t give the issue the attention it required. At least not now. Arriving at Mossad headquarters, Anton Bloch shot his wife a look that told her she’d have to handle it for the time being. As he was about to get out of the car, she grabbed his arm.
“Oh, wait. I have something for you.” She dug into her purse and handed over a message, scripted in her own meticulous handwriting. “Some fellow named Samuels called you at the house. He said this was important.”
He took the note, kissed his wife more than dutifully on the cheek, then hurried inside.
Bloch was recognized immediately by security at the entrance and ushered straight to his old office. His successor, Raymond Nurin, wanted a word with him. The choice didn’t surprise Bloch. Nurin had never spent much time in operations, but he was competent, and a safe pick who would neither stir controversy, nor go in and turn the place upside down to put his personal stamp on things.
Once alone on the elevator, Bloch read the message his wife had taken.
Sunday, 6:00 A.M.
Found second boat chartered from Rabat in Pytor Roth’s name. 34’ Hatteras. Name Broadbill, registered in Morocco. Went to sea two weeks ago, no sign of boat or crew since.
Advise.
Samuels.
Bloch crumpled up the note and vowed to call Nathan Chatham as soon as he could with the name Broadbill. He suspected there might have been a second boat, one to carry the second weapon. The first had been chartered in Casablanca, by Wysinski and his bunch. From there it had been a dead end — but now Rabat. Roth’s name had been the key. Bloch suspected a little research might turn up more on the man. Find him, and maybe they could get to that second weapon in time.
The elevator opened and Bloch was shown to his old office. Not much had changed. There were some new, half-opened boxes of junk to take the place of his own lot, which was presently shoved against the far wall. The desk was already buried under a maelstrom of papers and files.
“Anton,” Nurin said with false familiarity and a smile. Bloch had met the man a few times, but he’d always worked in other sections, socialized in different orbits.
“Where have you been?” Nurin asked guardedly, clearly uncomfortable in the company of his predecessor. The man almost seemed intimidated, and for the very first time Anton Bloch wondered how the rank and file of the Mossad had always seen him. Perhaps some gruff and surly tyrant? Bloch discarded the thought. He didn’t much care.
“In England,” Bloch grunted, “but you already know that.”
Nurin looked embarrassed. “Well, yes. But what were you doing there?”
“Trying to figure out where that missing weapon is.”
The new boss tried to exert some control. “Anton, jetting off to Europe is not the Director of Mossad’s job. We have people who do that kind of thing. And you left your personal security detail behind.”
“I’m not the Director anymore.”
“There’s a lot of people who were nervous about where you’d gone.”
“Like who?”
Nurin huffed, clearly not liking the vector of the conversation. His tone eased, “Look Anton, we’ve got to figure this out. I’m sorry about all that’s happened, but we have to work together.”
The last thing Bloch wanted was a togetherness speech. “I went to England to find Slaton and look for any leads on where that second weapon might be.”
“Did you have any luck?”
“No,” Bloch said, not bothering to add, And if I did have anything, I wouldn’t share it with you right now.
Nurin sighed, glancing at his watch. “I’m expecting a conference call from the Prime Minister any minute, but I’ve got to see you later today. There are some ongoing projects I’d like you to brief me on.”
Bloch tried to look enthusiastic. Then a thought came to mind.
“Yes, I’ll brief you on everything this afternoon. You know, it would help to have the files. That way we could go over them together.”
Nurin looked at a day planner on his desk. “How about three o’-clock? I’ll cancel the rest of my afternoon.”
“Fine,” Bloch said. “Do I still have authorization? Two days ago I was the Director, but if they’ve gone by the book, those pencil-necks downstairs might have pulled my access.”
Nurin looked surprised, “Oh, of course. I’ll make sure they give you whatever you need.”
Bloch retained his business-like expression. The new Director had just made his research a lot easier.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Inspector Chatham stood fast against the cold drizzle and brisk wind that whipped his face. It was a long face, longer than usual, and beads of precipitation peppered his mustache. He was standing on the ceremonial stage in Greenwich Park, and under his feet were two pieces of tape. They formed an X, this being the very spot where the signing table would be tomorrow morning. From this spot, the leading powers of the most embattled region on earth would commit to a lasting peace. That is, unless David Slaton got in the way. Or a nuclear weapon, or … what else? Chatham wondered fretfully. Perhaps a meteor from the heavens? It was his job to worry about things. All sorts of things. Yet, at the moment, he had an ill feeling he’d missed something.
A tireless Ian Dark came slogging across the wet sod and climbed up to the stage. Chatham’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon as his assistant came alongside and stood silently, apparently allowing rank its privileges.
“You know,” Chatham began, without taking his eyes off the park, “I’ve been at it a long time, this business of chasing after criminals. And I’ve had some success in hunting them down, putting them behind bars as necessary. Some were quite stupid, made the job easy. Others were actually rather clever. But they have all—” Chatham finally looked at his colleague, “all been done in by one thing. The predictability of human nature. It has always amazed me. They’ll rob a bank, then a week later when the money’s gone, they’ll rob the same one again. We’re very much creatures of habit, Ian. People go to work, eat lunch, exercise, and cheat on their spouses with amazing punctuality. My sister has gone to the same hair stylist at ten-thirty on Wednesday mornings for the past twelve years.”
Chatham began to stroll the platform. “My first case was a hit-and-run. Some poor chap got run down on a backstreet intersection at four in the morning. No witnesses, no physical evidence to speak of. I went out and stood on that corner from three to five in the morning for two weeks. Finally, a woman drove up one night and paused at the intersection. I was in uniform, and as soon as she looked over at me I knew. We both knew. I’ll never forget the look on her face. She confessed. She was a nurse, worked the late shift every other Saturday. She’d gone home sleepy that one night and missed the stop sign. Hit the fellow and panicked, kept going.”
Chatham moved slowly, almost as if conserving energy.
“Creatures of habit?” Dark asked. “Predictable? Even Slaton?”
“Especially Slaton!” He stopped and waved a hand out across the park. “Here. He’ll be here tomorrow, somehow.” Chatham strode back to the X. “While Israel’s Prime Minister is standing on this very spot!”
Dark looked around doubtfully. “Ten plainclothes men are already here, and twice as many uniforms. Tomorrow will triple that count, not to mention the head-of-state protection details of a half dozen countries. They’ll stop and question anyone having the faintest resemblance to Slaton’s photo. The trash cans are gone, the sewer covers bolted closed. And the only cars permitted within three blocks will be those carrying the
participants. I can’t see how, Inspector.”
“Nor can I, Ian. But just because we don’t see it — that doesn’t mean it’s not there. An opening. Somewhere.” Chatham looked out at the Queen’s House in the distance. “What about that, over there? Too far?” he wondered aloud.
“Oh, yes. I’ve talked to some of the Army chaps who do this sort of thing, the sharpshooters. They tell me four hundred yards is the outside, and then it would require a good bit of luck to hit a target the size of a person. The Queen’s House is nearly a thousand yards.” Dark raised one arm up at an angle. “You’d have to raise the gun up like this and loft the bullet in the general direction of a target. Hitting anyone would be sheer luck.”
Chatham eyed his assistant. “You have been busy.”
Dark grinned. “Those Army lads are really top drawer. I spent some time with them this morning. You see, I thought that of all the people I know, they’re the most like him. They make their livings much the same way he does, knowing how to hide and shoot. They’d know how he might go about doing it. I’m going to meet two of them in an hour, right here. I’ll have them look over the area firsthand and tell us what they think.”
Chatham cocked his head and nodded approvingly. “Yes, I see.” He went back to scanning the park. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
He rarely issued compliments, and when he did, they often seemed to come obtusely. But Chatham saw this one had hit home. Dark couldn’t have looked giddier if the Queen Mum herself had just touched a sword to his shoulders.
“Of course,” he added pensively, “that assumes he’s going to use the rifle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it occurred to me that he might have stolen those rifles in order for us to think these exact thoughts. For example, if we were concentrating on looking for a concealed sniper with an outsized rifle, we might ignore the more obvious. A well-disguised face in the crowd, an impostor on one of the security details. Remember, he’s stolen a handgun as well.”
