The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  “I used to live near here,” Ferguson confided when the waitress had gone. “I came in a bit when I was home on leave.”

  “That’s it?” Ava was unconvinced.

  Ferguson looked down at his plate. “They once offered to do me a favour. Now seemed like a good time to ask, that’s all.”

  She shook her head. “The waiter acted like nothing would’ve been too much trouble. You could’ve asked to marry his sister and he’d have said yes.”

  Ferguson pincered a piece of pickled cucumber between his chopsticks and ate it thoughtfully.

  Ava raised her hand slightly to call over the waitress. “If you don’t tell me,” she threatened, “I’ll ask one of the staff.”

  “Okay,” Ferguson looked resigned. “Just put your hand down.”

  Ava wanted to hear this. It was not often she saw Ferguson being reticent.

  “About a year and a half ago, I was the last person here one night. I finished and went to wash my hands. When I came back, I heard a table being knocked over and crockery hitting the floor.”

  “I edged open the door,” he pointed to the washroom door at the back of the room, “and could see there were three men in hoodies. One was going through the till. The other two were working on the waitress. The larger one was holding her, while the smaller one was opening her cheek with a Stanley knife. They were all laughing and jeering, egging him on. They were sky high on something, and the last thing they expected was a bloke running out of the washrooms at them.”

  “You soldiers are all the same. It’s always about you.” Ava shook her head in mock disapproval.

  “And you wonder why I didn’t want to tell you.” He paused. “The lad with his fingers in the till got introduced to the base unit of that old-fashioned telephone over there. The bloke with the knife found himself talking to a fire extinguisher at close range. And the one who had been holding the girl was still on the floor whimpering over his shattered kneecap when the kitchen staff and other waiters came through to see what the noise was.”

  “What happened to the waitress?” Ava asked.

  Ferguson paused. “Not good. She was badly shaken and needed stitches.”

  “And our waiter?” Ava glanced in the direction of the swing doors he had departed through.

  “The girl’s uncle—first on the scene from the kitchen, where he’d been cleaning up.”

  “What happened to the attackers?”

  Ferguson took a sip of the beer that had appeared. “A passer-by coming out of the restaurant opposite called the police. But when they arrived, no one here wanted to say anything. The police carted the men away. I guess they had a night in the cells and were then released.”

  Ava was appalled. “So they got away with it?”

  “I doubt it very much,” Ferguson lowered his voice. “Our friends here belong to a very private community. They don’t talk to the police, and they don’t go to court. But that doesn’t mean crimes go unpunished. They have a strong traditional code.”

  He took another mouthful of pickled vegetables. “I never asked what happened to them. And I don’t want to know. But I doubt they’ll be thinking of causing trouble in Chinatown again any time soon.”

  The waiter returned and spoke softly to Ferguson. “It’s arranged. But first, the food is on me.” He took Ferguson’s menu. “You won’t need this.”

  Ava handed him her menu, too. “I should hang around you more often,” she confided once the waiter had gone. “I could get used to this.”

  Ferguson sat back looking contented. “One thing’s for sure. We’re going to be undisturbed this evening. Our colleagues from Vauxhall Cross and Millbank may have this town sewn up with microphones, cameras, cars, watchers, and snitches in every conceivable place. But we just fell off the radar. We’re in London’s very own Bermuda Triangle.”

  DAY ELEVEN

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  93

  Maze Hill

  London SE10

  London

  The United Kingdom

  Uri woke with a start.

  But too late.

  The men in balaclavas were already on top of him.

  He slept with a sidelight on, so he could always see what was happening. But they had been quiet and quick. He had no time to reach for the handgun he always kept under his pillow.

  His arms were yanked hard behind his back and rapidly secured tightly with what felt like rope. At the same time, a wide strip of masking tape was stuck roughly over his mouth, and a thick hood was pulled down over his head.

  As the world went dark, he tried lashing out with his legs—but they did not move. Men were already sitting on his lower body, and he could feel his ankles being bound tightly.

  There was nothing he could do except force himself to override the reflex to panic.

  Most of all, he had to stay alert—to not miss any details. Any one of them could save his life.

  The men were clearly professional. It was obviously not the first time they had done this. They moved swiftly and in silence, as a team.

  He had already worked out they did not want to kill him—at any rate, not yet. If they had, he would be dead already.

  He tried to slow his breathing, but his body was surging with adrenaline as he tried to protect himself from whatever assault was about to begin.

  But it was all guesswork. He could see nothing, and would have no warning of an attack. One could come from any direction.

  He felt himself being rolled roughly onto his side, then onto his back again, while something was wrapped around him. He could not work out what it was until he heard a long zip being done up from his feet to his head.

  He knew what that sound was all too well.

  He was being sealed inside a body bag.

  He could feel the sweat pouring off him, as he braced for whatever was going to happen next.

  There was the unmistakable sound of the slide on an automatic handgun being drawn back, cocking the weapon. Then he felt something hard being rammed into the base of his skull.

  After a few seconds, the gun was withdrawn.

  It was a warning.

  The threat was severe. He knew that. He had seen four men in his room the moment before they hooded him, and he had to assume there would be more—at least one at the door, and perhaps one or more going through his possessions.

  With no warning, he felt himself being lifted roughly off the bed.

  He was totally at their mercy. He wanted to protect his head, but his hands were bound behind his back. If they planned to kick him about or throw him out of the window, there was nothing he would be able to do to protect himself.

  But he was being held firmly, and could feel himself bumping against the men carrying him. He had no idea where they were taking him, but from the unmistakable foetid smell, he could tell they had left his flat and were now in the corridor.

  As they reached the stairs and he sensed his body being angled downwards head first, he began to struggle. It was a reflex action, but he stopped when he felt a hard blow to his head, and the men’s grip on him tightened as they began descending.

  It took all his willpower to stop himself from shouting out. His logical mind told him they were holding him firmly, and were not about to throw him down the concrete stairwell. But his natural instinct was to struggle and get as far away from the danger as possible.

  Who were these people? What did they want?

  If he was honest, the list of people who might like to take him on a little trip was not exactly short.

  He and his colleagues from the Institute lived under the permanent threat of being uncovered by their country’s enemies—which they all knew included a long roll-call of hostile governments and paramilitary groups.

  The fact he was in the Metsada department and carried out political assassinations for a living was probably not even the issue. It would be enough for most of their enemies to know he was active Mossad. He could work in the car
pool for all the difference it would make.

  If it was not one of his country’s enemies, it could just as easily be the British authorities. Nobody had kept the MI5 liaison at Thames House in the loop, and they would not take kindly to a covert operation being run on UK soil without their knowledge. If they found out what he was up to, he could expect an unfriendly reception and a seat on the next plane back to Tel Aviv.

  Or maybe it was his own side? It was always a possibility. The local Mossad team had not been alerted to his presence, and there was no guarantee any of them knew his face. They could even be using outside contractors. Or perhaps they had been monitoring Malchus’s organization, and wanted to ask a few questions of the latest SS recruit?

  Finally, there was always the chance he had been betrayed. Not by Moshe, he was sure of that. But something had definitely gone wrong. The secure SMS message he had received to clear the old KGB dead letter box at the Brompton Oratory had turned out to be a wild goose chase. There had been nothing there to recover, and he had no response from the contact’s phone number, which he had been texting at intervals ever since.

  Maybe his contact had been captured and was singing like a canary?

  It was all speculation. But he needed to work through the possibilities. Knowing who had him could save his life.

  There were no doors at the bottom of the grimy stairwell, which opened directly onto the pavement. He could hear a car engine idling close by—but quickly realized there were two. There was no other traffic or street noise.

  It must be the very small hours of the morning—between 2:30 and 4:00 a.m., he guessed.

  A moment later, he registered multiple bolts of pain to his head, back, and knees, as he felt himself being stuffed into a car boot.

  To confirm it, the lid slammed shut above him with an unmistakably ominous thud.

  It was soon followed by the noise of car doors being pulled closed, before there was nothing but darkness and the sound of the rapidly accelerating engine.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  94

  Maze Hill

  London SE10

  England

  The United Kingdom

  The car stopped without warning, and Uri was bundled out of it.

  He had no idea where he was.

  He could be anywhere.

  He estimated he had been in the boot for at least twenty minutes. But it was impossible to be sure.

  He was hauled into a building, and dropped onto a hard floor.

  He felt the body bag being unzipped, and hands lifting him out, standing him on his feet.

  He was leant up against something cold and hard, and belts were tightened around him, lashing him upright.

  With no warning, the hood was ripped off, and he could see again.

  Blinking, he saw he was in an industrial space—an old factory, he guessed. The concrete floor was cracked, with holes marking where machinery had once stood.

  The walls were London brick—an indeterminate red-brown colour he had seen in old industrial buildings everywhere around. Years of neglect had covered them in a grimy patina that now seemed part of their design.

  The only light was from a clip-on bulb in a wire cage clamped to one of the pillars and wired onto an old car battery.

  The building looked as if it had been thoroughly gutted years ago. The few high windows were covered with warped metal sheeting. All that remained at floor level were rows of rusty iron pillars supporting the high ceiling.

  He was tied to one of them.

  It smelled damp. There was a faint tang of salt in the air, which meant they were somewhere near the river—presumably in one of the many derelict buildings that silently witnessed the Thames’ heavy mercantile and industrial past.

  The floor immediately around him was noticeably more dirty and stained than the rest. He suspected it was not the first time someone had been brought here and tied to this pillar to be worked over.

  One of the balaclavad men approached him.

  He could only watch as the punch came—a savage blow to his solar plexus, intensified by the matt black knuckleduster wrapped around his attacker’s fist.

  There was nothing he could do except brace himself for the impact, which sent an explosion of pain tearing through his torso and directly up to his brain.

  The man pulled off his balaclava and looked at Uri.

  Uri stared back at him without blinking.

  It was Otto.

  But he was no longer the Skipper’s deferential number two. The man in front of him now was very definitely in charge.

  The others had melted away around the room.

  This was plainly Otto’s show.

  “Did you know, Danny,” Otto’s tone was purposefully breezy, “SS men were required to administer punishment beatings to their fellow soldiers, sometimes to the death, to teach them the discipline of absolute obedience. To turn them into a purifying storm of steel.”

  Uri saw the fist coming again, and braced himself against the hard metal ridges that smashed into his stomach a split-second later.

  He could feel the pain rip through him, but stifled the urge to show it. As he lifted his head up again, Otto tore the strip of masking tape off his mouth.

  “But in your case, Danny, this exercise has a purpose. You see,” he paused to punch him viciously in the gut again, “I know the Skipper likes you, but I must say,” he unleashed another hard blow at his solar plexus, grunting as he did so, “personally I have my doubts.”

  Uri was clenching his teeth to stifle the pain. He wanted to lash out, but it was pointless.

  “The thing is, Danny,” Otto moved away, and slipped off the knuckleduster, “I’ve been doing a bit of research on you. And do you know what I’ve found?”

  Uri gazed back at him, his face set like stone.

  “Well, you see, that’s just the problem. I can’t find anything. You’re a ghost, Danny.”

  So that was what this was about.

  “There’s no Danny Motson born on the twenty-first of November 1978 in Liverpool.” Otto leant in, putting his face a few inches from Uri’s. “So my question, Danny, is who are you, and why are you interested in us?”

  Otto bent down and uncoiled a long double hose. As he picked it up, Uri could see it ended in a slim metal pipe with an angled nozzle.

  His heart began hammering against his ribcage as he recognized what it was.

  Looking behind Otto, he saw the pair of small battered and chained cylinders of pressurized gas, confirming the worst.

  “Do you know how hot this gets, Danny?” He looked at Uri, but did not wait for an answer. “No? I’ll tell you. Six thousand three hundred degrees Fahrenheit.”

  Otto held the nozzle a few inches from Uri’s face. “So let’s start with some answers, shall we?”

  “I told you,” Uri answered through gritted teeth, “I was in Australia. I just got back.”

  Otto smiled nastily. “I’m not interested in where you’ve been, Danny. I want to know who you are.”

  “I’ve told you my real name,” Uri challenged him. “Which is more than I know about you, ‘Otto’.”

  “You catch on quick, Danny.” Otto let out a low chuckle, but there was no humour in it.

  Uri had prepared the cover meticulously with Moshe before leaving Israel.

  He did not want anything that involved false papers or a complicated web of alibis.

  He had quickly come up with the idea of Danny Motson—a loner with no past except a shadowy history in the world of organized crime.

  It was a perfect cover for the assignment. In the world he was entering, there were dozens of guys like Danny.

  Moshe had wanted to set up one or two people who would vouch for him if any questions were asked, but Uri had refused point blank. He did not want to have anything riding on the credibility of anyone else.

  Danny was a loner. And that suited Uri just fine.

  “I said my family’s from Liverpool,”
Uri slipped quickly into the story. The key was to deliver it with absolute confidence. The consequences of being unconvincing were stark. “You never asked where I was born. It was Rhodesia—when some of us still thought it was British. The ’64 to ’79 war destroyed most records and paperwork. And I haven’t exactly registered for a social security number since.”

  Otto shook his head, opening the regulators and valves on the cylinders. He pulled out a metal cigarette lighter and touched it to the tip of the nozzle. With a loud popping sound, a long ragged yellow acetylene flame shot out of the pipe, roaring loudly.

  “You see, Danny. That all just sounds too convenient for me.” He moved a step closer towards Uri. “And I don’t like coincidences.”

  Uri watched as Otto turned a small screw on the handle, blending in the pure pressurized oxygen, increasing the temperature of the flame by over a thousand degrees. As the oxygen rushed in, the jagged billowing yellow flame narrowed into a vicious-looking tube, and turned a loud hissing blue.

  Apart from the noise of the torch, the warehouse was silent. Uri thought he heard an engine pass by outside, but then it was gone.

  Otto held the flame closer to Uri’s face. The heat was searing. At its core it was hot enough to turn solid steel cherry red in seconds. He would be incinerated in less—the flame was three-and-a-half times hotter than a crematorium.

  “I think it’s time we showed you who’s boss, Danny. You’re a bit big for your boots, for a new boy. Maybe you need to learn a little bit about who runs things around here.”

  The heat was becoming unbearable. Uri could feel the sweat pouring off his face and torso. Behind the flame, Otto’s eyes were gleaming with a savage intensity.

  With a sickening burst of clarity, Uri realized this was never to have been an interrogation.

  It was an execution.

  He stared Otto in the eye.

  Death was not something he thought about much. But he knew one thing. When it was his turn, he would go down fighting like the warriors of old—Samson, Saul, Ahab, Judas Maccabeus. The list was long. When he went, he would join his country’s roll of honour.