Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

  “I know Kerem,” Jake said. “They operate a small winery.”

  “Isn’t it on our list?” I asked.

  “Yes. They’re religiously oriented. Orthodox, but not ultra. As for the brother who’s treasurer, it’s one of the three top jobs on a kibbutz.”

  “That explains some things,” Jarvis said. “My Israeli contact dug around at Ben-Gurion and found someone who saw the arrival of that Astra SPX. He said they carried somebody off the plane on a stretcher. The patient was placed in a waiting ambulance, which left with a Mercedes escort. When my man inquired about any markings on the ambulance, he was told it came from Kibbutz Kerem.”

  I stared at him, feeling sick. “That’s got to be where they’re holding Jill.”

  “Probably.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get moving toward the Mount of Olives. Are you ready for Moriah?”

  “Do you have a security detail?”

  “A couple of off-duty Marines. They’re already over there. We’ll stay in the background.”

  I turned to Jake. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much grief, my friend. But I couldn’t have made it without you. Good luck.”

  “You’re sure you won’t need me anymore?” He sounded both relieved and concerned.

  “Colonel Jarvis can keep me straight from here on.”

  “It’s been frightening, Greg, I admit it. But, really, I’m available if you need me. You have my cell phone number.”

  The colonel’s car was a copy of my own Jeep Cherokee, except it was a gray. For the first time since my arrival in Israel, I felt somewhat at home.

  “I’ll stash the scroll in back,” Jarvis said. He buried the canister inside a bulging laundry bag.

  “You aren’t married, are you, Colonel?” I asked.

  “The Air Force always kept me too busy.” He started the Jeep and moved out into the midday traffic. Streets near the old walled city were bustling with a steady stream of cars, mostly older models, dusty trucks and packed buses. “What made you think I wasn’t married?”

  “The laundry bag.”

  Jarvis nodded. “You seem like a sharp guy. How come they didn’t promote you to bird colonel?”

  “I once made an officer with stars on his shoulders very unhappy. He never forgot.”

  “I think you’re the guy my Uncle Fred used to talk about, an agent who treated protocol like it was an infectious disease.”

  “I wasn’t much on protocol.”

  “You’d fit in well here. The Israelis aren’t big on it either. Do what it takes to get the job done. If things go wrong, it can get a little messy, but they worry about it later.” He glanced across at me. “This Moriah will be a pretty tough nut to crack.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just be careful. They say he goes from hot to cold in a flash. There’s an unconfirmed report that he once turned almost demonic, tried to throw a guy out a window.”

  We arrived early at the Mount of Olives and parked far away from the church. The Temple Alliance would not likely be watching. Colonel Jarvis stayed a good hundred feet behind me as I walked into the wind toward the large basilica. It was flanked by gardens of two-thousand-year-old olive trees. I thought about the volatile man I was going up against. Against two thousand years it sounded tame. I took heart from that–that plus Gethsemane was the namesake of our church, where Jill and I had renewed our marriage vows. That got to me. I was ready for this sonofabitch.

  I shoved it all aside as I approached the church’s stone archway and massive wooden doors. Jake’s camera bag hung over my shoulder. I knew Jarvis would be identifying me to his Marines. They would be rambling about close by like tourists. I checked out the people loitering near the entrance and spotted the tall, muscular figure of Lipkowitz, the Temple Alliance operative who had accompanied Zalman to Nashville. I ignored him.

  Inside the building I glanced around. I remembered coming in from bright sunshine before. This time it was dull out. My eyes adjusted quickly.

  There was a constant movement of people around the church. They shuffled past the pinkish, purplish glow of the alabaster windows, gazing at the beautiful mosaics, gawking at the rocky square below a large altar where Jesus was believed to have prayed. A few sat silently in chairs back of the railing that enclosed the altar area. The last row was vacant.

  As soon as I sat down, someone took the seat to my left. I found myself facing a smile that was at once amusing and grotesque. It was a twisted, lopsided expression and yet it made you want to grin back. Which I did.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” he said. He was shorter than me, with a stocky build and short black hair. He was powerful looking, his eyes dark and intense. He wore a brown leather jacket.

  “You are Moshe Levin, alias Moriah?”

  The smile broadened. “I am Moshe Levin.”

  “Mr. Levin, I’m here for one purpose and one purpose only–that’s to get my wife back. I’m not wired, so let’s talk.”

  He pulled a small, box-like device from his pocket and moved it about my body. The smile was gone. “Do you have the scroll in that bag?”

  “First, what have you done with my wife, and when can I talk to her?”

  “She is staying with friends at a safe place. I could have her here in a couple of hours. But I must authenticate the document before we go any further.”

  “That’s what you want. I want some guarantees that you won’t try to take me prisoner as well.”

  “That’s absurd. Is that why you brought in your American military friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not go to the police,” he said. “That was wise. It would have complicated things immensely, making it much more difficult for your wife’s safe return. Now, show me the scroll. We can then bring this matter to a quick conclusion.”

  I flipped open Jake’s camera bag, which, of course, was empty. “I didn’t bring it. I didn’t trust you people to let me leave here with it.”

  His eyes hardened like onyx. “I was warned by Eli Zalman that you might do something silly. You are your own worst enemy, McKenzie, and you try my patience.”

  “And you mine. First you fried a couple of Palestinians in Nashville, then snatched a perfectly innocent woman who never did anything to you and illegally flew her over here.”

  “How do we know you are not organizing efforts to dig up the buried menorahs? They are worth a fortune.”

  “You know everything about me,” I said. “Don’t be coy.”

  “Have you hidden the scroll around Mr. Cohen’s apartment?”

  “Your people didn’t find it, did they? I buried it in the flower bed. Anyway, the Guardians of Palestine beat you to it.”

  “What do you mean?” He stopped as some women tourists moved by us.

  “They tried to ambush Jake and me in front of his place.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “Look, if you really intend to cooperate with us and provide the scroll in exchange for your wife, we can make the exchange tonight at seven. Is that agreeable?”

  I had no choice but to agree.

  “I warn you. Don’t attempt any use of force with your American military,” he said. “They would be in grave danger for no real reason. You may bring Colonel Jarvis, as a gesture of our good faith. We would not harm an American Air Force attaché. But no one else.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Caesarea. The park will be closed, of course. I believe you visited there during your recent trip.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you recall an entrance over an old moat and through the stone wall, almost like a tunnel? It comes out in the vicinity of what is known as the Fortified Medieval City.”

  “That’s the way we came out when we left,” I said.

  “Go in that entrance and walk down toward the harbor. I will be there with your wife. If you don’t bring the scroll, you’ll never to see her again.”

  Despite David Wolfson’s concerns about letting the Temple Alliance get its
hands on the scroll, I had no options.

  “Okay,” I said. “But first I must speak to my wife and make sure she’s all right.”

  “Follow me,” he said, standing up.

  We walked back outside, over to one of the huge stone archways. He pulled out a cell phone. He spoke what must have been Hebrew then waited. He muttered something else and handed the phone to me. “Your wife,” he said.

  My heart was pounding.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Greg...is that you?” She sounded shaky.

  “It’s me, babe. Are you all right?”

  “I guess. I feel awful, like I’ve been drugged.”

  No doubt she had. “Don’t give up now. I swear I’ll get you out of this.”

  I listened intently for background sounds, but the cell phone connection didn’t help. And then Jill, sharp lady that she is, did the job for me, though it shut us down.

  “Please hurry,” she said. “This room is cold and dark and the tractors are noisy–”

  “Goodbye, Mr. McKenzie,” a cold female voice cut in and the line went dead.

  Chapter 37

  I handed the phone back, glancing at the small screen as I did. The number was no longer displayed. I had been too excited at the prospect of hearing Jill’s voice to check it earlier. I needed to concentrate...think.

  “Satisfied?” Moshe Levin asked.

  “She sounded all right. Said she felt like she had been drugged, which I’m sure she had.”

  He shrugged. “No more than you would have done under the circumstances.”

  I found that galling and my blood pressure took a leap. “You’re full of shit, Levin. In all my years as an investigator, I never drugged anyone or kidnapped anyone and held them against their will. My wife deserved none of this.” I was raising my voice but I couldn’t help it. “I don’t intend to forget it. I’m going to do everything in my power to see that you and your damned Temple Alliance live to regret this.”

  He grabbed my arm in a vise-like grip and jerked me toward the steps that led down to the fenced plaza beside the street. “Keep your voice down. You’re attracting attention.”

  Two strapping young men with short hair and grim looks on their faces suddenly appeared at either side of me. The taller, who looked like he might have been an NFL linebacker, put a hand on Levin’s arm and pushed it away.

  “Are you all right, sir?” he asked me.

  The Marines had landed.

  I smiled. “Thanks. I’m fine. Mr. Levin was just leaving.”

  His twisted, lopsided smile returned. The madness in it scared me. “I will expect you to follow the instructions to the letter,” he said.

  With that, he spun on his heel and headed through the gate. I spotted Lipkowitz following him out. I knew there would be others along the way.

  I shook hands with the two young men. “Greg McKenzie,” I said. “Thanks for showing up.”

  When Colonel Jarvis walked up, I thanked him as well.

  “What was he up to, pushing you around like that?” Jarvis asked.

  “I’m afraid my big mouth got me in trouble again,” I said. “I couldn’t take it when he said I was no different than him. I got hot. I threatened to get even.”

  “Not a smart move,” said Jarvis. He turned to the two Marines. “You guys did a great job. Why don’t you walk with us back to my Jeep, then you’re on your own.”

  Back in the colonel’s Jeep, I related what had happened during my encounter with Moshe Levin. He jumped on Jill’s comment about the tractors.

  “A farm,” I said. “Maybe a collective farm.”

  “Yeah. More evidence we’re talking about Kibbutz Kerem. What do you make of the proposed meeting at Caesarea?”

  “I don’t like it. He’s probably right they wouldn’t do anything to harm you, but they could put you down and make off with Jill and me.”

  Jarvis started the Cherokee and headed west across Jerusalem. “We’ll take Route 1 to Tel Aviv. That’ll put us about sixty kilometers from Kerem, less to Caesarea. We’ve got five hours to decide what to do.”

  We drove toward Tel Aviv over the same route I had taken by bus the night before. I asked him if it was okay to smoke.

  “Be my guest,” he said. “I don’t, but everybody around me at the office does.”

  After lighting up, I looked around. “Now that we’re alone, is there anything else you can tell me about Moshe Levin?”

  Jarvis shrugged. “Well, let’s see. His parents migrated from Philadelphia back in the sixties. Moshe was born shortly before the Six-Day War in 1967. They lived near the West Bank, and both his parents were killed by a stray artillery shell during the war. He and his older brother were raised by an aunt, who joined Kibbutz Kerem about the time it was organized some twenty years ago.”

  “He’s a native Israeli then,” I said. “Aren’t they called sabras?”

  “Right. It’s the word for prickly pear. Supposedly, that’s what the natives are like–spiky on the outside but sweet inside. Young Moshe certainly qualifies on the spiky side, but the sweet part seems a bit improbable. He left the kibbutz for college, where he was recruited by the Mossad. Apparently he was the ideal candidate. Not a lot is known about his assignments, though he evidently carried them out with deadly precision. He spent ten years with the intelligence agency. Then, about a year ago, he got this job with the Temple Alliance, probably through his brother, who’s big in the movement.”

  “After what happened to his parents, he doesn’t care for Arabs?”

  “Big time. He hates Palestinians and Muslims in general. And he will kill as necessary.”

  “So he would slit my throat to get that scroll.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  That also meant he would kill Jill to get her out of the way. Why let her walk around when she could tell what had happened to her? The thought sickened me. I changed the subject. “How about your background, Colonel?”

  I learned he was the son of a Baptist minister from Indianapolis and had flown F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighters in Desert Storm. Afterward, he had been chosen to work with the F-22 Raptor project, the ultra-stealth, long-range air superiority fighter capable of cruising at supersonic speeds. But along the way to Rapture, as he put it, something happened to change his career.

  “I had been a lifelong bachelor, and proud of it,” Jarvis said. “Then I met a young lady who knocked me flat on my back. She was nothing like the women I had known before. They all seemed to be operating on an agenda, with something to get or something to prove. But Abby Farrell was different. As best I could tell, she wanted nothing and expected nothing. She liked herself and lived every day to the fullest. It made you feel like a king just to be around her.

  “She was a civilian working on the Raptor project. I hadn’t figured out exactly what she did, and she was always somewhat coy about it. But she seemed to like me and I invited her out a few times. I was totally fascinated by her. And then, suddenly, she was gone.”

  “What do you mean she was gone?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Exactly that–gone. She didn’t show up around the project office. When I tried to call, her phone had been disconnected. Her apartment was vacated.”

  “That sounds distressingly familiar.”

  “I know,” said Jarvis. “That’s probably the main reason I’ve taken on your problem. I saw the parallel.”

  I stubbed out my cigarette. “Did you ask the project manager about Abby?”

  “He was evasive. Said her job was finished and she had moved on. He had no idea where.”

  “Didn’t you push him for answers?”

  “As hard as I could afford to. You know how it is in the military. He claimed she had been sent by some government referral agency. He couldn’t remember the name. Said her personnel file had been dispatched to the Pentagon. When I pressed him on that, he got testy. Said I’d have to go to SecDef for anything else.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “The Secretary of Defense?”r />
  “Right. And when I called there, I was told they had no record of an Abby Farrell.”

  “She must have been under deep cover.”

  He nodded. “The only thing I could figure was counter-espionage.”

  “That could have meant OSI or FBI,” I said. I had been involved in a few spy chases during the Cold War. “But neither of those are normally that secretive. There are some scenarios where the CIA might have been involved. Did you ever learn anything more?”

  “I’m still looking.” He watched as a large truck loaded with drilling equipment pulled out in front of him. “That’s what got me into this attaché business. I realized there was a whole different, invisible world out there most people knew nothing about. I set out to find a way through the maze. I went to Intelligence School, then studied Hebrew at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey. After that, they sent me over here.” He managed a smile. “I miss the flying.”

  As I looked out at the stark Judean hills, beneath a leaden sky, I remembered some of my OSI buddies going through the same route Jarvis had. As for obscure government agencies that did strange things, I had run into a few of those myself during my Air Force career. But I knew he would need luck to stumble onto the one that might lead him to Abby Farrell. At any rate, I was happy he had chosen his present path. Without him I’d fail.

  On the outskirts of Tel Aviv, with its modern high-rise skyline barely visible in the haze, we turned north and circled around to an upscale housing development near the coast. Jarvis lived in a spacious apartment. The furniture was solid and tasteful, the colors subdued and masculine. As rain began to spatter on the windows the colonel brewed a pot of coffee. We sat down at an oval table off the kitchen.

  “I’ve been thinking about that Caesarea business,” he said.

  He set a cup in front of me and I grinned at the inscription: Old airmen never die, they just fade off the radar.

  “Any ideas?” I asked.