Dead Line

by Stella Rimington

  ‘I’m glad too,’ she said, looking up at him. He turned and left the room.

  When he’d gone, she sat down again at her desk, put her head on her arms and cried.

  It wasn’t until she was back at home in Kentish Town and considering what to eat for supper that Reggie Purves rang. Kollek had got off the Underground at Heathrow. He’d gone to the El Al desk in Terminal One. He must have had a ticket or shown some kind of pass because he was let through airside. By the time A4 had got hold of Special Branch at the terminal to get them through airside too, he was nowhere to be seen. They’d searched all the shops and the restaurants and the open lounges. Wally’s partner Maureen Hayes and a Special Branch officer had been into the El Al lounge too but there was no sign of him there either and no one admitted to having seen him. No El Al flight for Israel had departed yet, so he’d either left the airport or gone on some other flight.

  ‘We’ll wait until the EL Al flight leaves. Boarding’s at 21.05 and we can see if he turns up at the gate. But then either we’ll have to withdraw or I’ll need to allocate some fresh teams. That might be a problem as we’ve got a lot on for counter terrorism tonight.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Liz. ‘Watch till boarding’s complete and if he doesn’t turn up withdraw and we’ll just have to assume we’ve lost him.’

  ‘OK,’ replied Reggie.

  Liz put the phone down and poured herself a glass of wine. She knew with a sinking feeling that Kollek had slipped through their fingers. He wasn’t going to turn up for that flight and now they had no idea where he was or what he was doing.

  At 9.30 the phone rang. She was right. Kollek had not boarded. Damn.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Andy Bokus was fed up. The last thing he wanted was another visitation from the Brits, and if Ty Oakes hadn’t been in town and looking over his shoulder he would have fobbed them off. Hadn’t they already had their pound of Bokus flesh?

  He felt he’d been made to look stupid. He kicked himself for being picked up by the MI5 surveillance of Danny Kollek. But he’d had no reason to think they’d be watching the Israeli. Kollek was undeclared, after all, and his operations were discreet enough not to have attracted MI5’s attention. Or at least, that’s what he’d told Bokus.

  Now Bokus had to wonder. He kept asking himself what had put MI5 onto Kollek in the first place. Maybe he could learn that today; there had to be something useful he could get out of this meeting.

  He looked without appetite at the slab of Danish pastry on his plate, and took a careless slug from his coffee, cursing as he burned his tongue. He was sitting in the embassy restaurant, practically deserted at mid-morning. He’d been in his office before eight, but he’d been too agitated to eat breakfast.

  He wondered what the Brits had made of the material Kollek had supplied. Not much, he guessed. It was low-grade stuff. He knew that, but that wasn’t the point. You had to take a long-term view, and by that standard Kollek was potentially one of the most important agents the CIA had ever had. The idea of jeopardising all this because the Brits were panicked about a peace conference that no one thought for a minute was going to get anywhere, was ridiculous.

  At least Miles Brookhaven was away, so he didn’t have to put up with meeting the Brits with that preppy jerk in tow. He remembered how self-satisfied the Ivy Leaguer had looked when Ty Oakes had briefed him about the Kollek debacle. Concerned and superior at the same time. Bokus had never been a fan of Miles Brookhaven, but now he actively disliked him. He had managed to get rid of him temporarily by accelerating the junior officer’s annual trip to Syria. Bokus had claimed it might be useful, given the imminent peace conference, though that was just an excuse to get him out of his hair.

  Now Fane and that Carlyle woman had asked for this meeting and he was worried in case they’d found out something else to his discredit. His reputation at Langley was high, ever since the Madrid bombings, when he’d done so well. He wasn’t used to being caught out embarrassingly by his host country.

  He felt on edge as he looked at his watch - the Brits were due any minute. Fane he could just about stomach: all that British upper-class stuff grated on him and he was pretty sure Fane considered himself both his intellectual and social superior. It was irritating, too, when Fane played the gifted amateur, whose work in intelligence was just one of many hobbies, like fly fishing or collecting rare books. But beneath that smooth, cynical facade, Bokus knew Fane was a pro - which meant he was a guy you could do business with.

  That woman Carlyle, on the other hand, was harder to read. She had none of Fane’s snootiness or affectation, and on the surface she seemed much more straightforward and direct. Yet it was hard to know what was going on with her - what she was really thinking. And there was something relentless too, a sort of tenacity that Bokus found uncomfortable, particularly when he was its target. She needed watching, as he’d told Miles Brookhaven.

  Oh hell, give me a break, thought Bokus, sighing wearily, as he stood up to go to the meeting. If he had taken just a bit more care, as he would have done anywhere else, the Brits would never have found out about him and Kollek. Hopefully, they were coming today to talk about Gleneagles, not yet again about that bloody Israeli.

  As a teenager, Liz had been told by her grandmother to beware of the kind of boy who ‘wasn’t safe in taxis’. Geoffrey Fane would once perfectly have fitted the mould. But this morning, as she saw him sitting gloomy and slightly hunched in the corner of the black cab that picked her up outside Thames House, he looked far too depressed to be much of a threat. He barely replied when Liz raised the subject of their forthcoming meeting in Grosvenor Square, grunting his assent when she outlined the approach she wanted to take.

  As they moved up the Mall past Buckingham Palace, he gave a loud sigh. ‘Pity Miles Brookhaven won’t be there. I gather he’s abroad.’

  ‘Yes. He’s in Syria.’

  ‘Such a clever, handsome youth, isn’t he?’ said Fane caustically. When Liz did not respond he looked dismally out of the window.

  Twenty minutes later, as their meeting began, Liz was relieved to see that Fane had emerged from his sulk. That was the redeeming feature of the man: you could grow infuriated by his overdone secrecy, his manipulative ways, his arrogance, but there was never any doubting his professional commitment. Or his competence.

  She had explained Charles Wetherby’s absence to the two Americans, promised to pass on their messages of sympathy and endured the chit-chat about the persisting warm weather, as they proceeded to the safe room. Inside, the air conditioning, humming loudly, had turned the insulated bubble into an ice box.

  Fane kicked off, crossing a leg languidly and saying, ‘Sorry to trouble you, gentlemen, but we thought a quick meeting before the Gleneagles conference began might be useful.’ He added pointedly, ‘Especially since I gather Miles Brookhaven is in the Middle East.’

  Bokus replied. ‘Sure. I sent him off to see if there was anything useful to be picked up out there.’

  ‘Well, it’s more what’s going on here that’s concerning us at present,’ said Fane mildly. ‘Elizabeth?’

  Liz leaned forward, concerned to make her points unambiguously. ‘We’ve grown very concerned about Danny Kollek. Yes, we appreciate the sensitivity of this, but the fact is that the two people we were told were working against the Syrians were actually working for Mossad. And I happen to know that one of them, Christopher Marsham, was in contact with Kollek because I saw Kollek myself outside Marsham’s house.’ She looked at Bokus. ‘I briefed Miles fully on this.’

  Bokus gave a weary shrug of his shoulders. ‘Yeah, I know. But it didn’t mean much to me. I never had much faith in the idea that the two guys were working against the Syrians. It looked like a classic piece of disinformation to me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Liz conceded. ‘But whose disinformation? The list you gave us of Kollek’s contacts in the UK didn’t include Marcham. And earlier, when Geoffrey told you the two names we’d received, you said you hadn’t heard of
either of them.’

  ‘I hadn’t,’ said Bokus aggressively. ‘Otherwise, I would have said so when Geoffrey came and told us they were the targets. That’s why I’m sure Kollek didn’t have anything to do with them, or he would have listed them as contacts he was running.’

  No one spoke. Liz saw Tyrus Oakes shift his gaze downwards to study his tie - another reversed stripes item. Bokus looked around him with a mystified expression. ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded.

  Liz glanced at Fane, wondering if she should say what they were all thinking. Tyrus Oakes’s continued inspection of his tie spoke volumes.

  At last Fane said coolly, ‘Maybe Kollek didn’t want you to know.’

  Liz thought for a moment Bokus would explode. His cheeks turned puce and he began to shake his head. ‘No way,’ he said emphatically. ‘Kollek was straight; he wouldn’t have dared hold back on me. There was too much at stake for him. If his colleagues in Mossad even got a whiff that he was talking to us, his career wouldn’t have been worth five cents. He’d have gone to prison - think of what happened to Vanunu.’

  The scientist who, having spilled the beans to a British newspaper about Israel’s nuclear capability, was lured to Italy in a classic ‘honey trap’, then kidnapped Eichmann-like and brought back to Israel, where he was tried and sentenced, and then spent eighteen years in solitary confinement.

  ‘Listen,’ Bokus added rudely, pointing an accusatory finger at Liz, ‘I’ve run more assets than you’ve had breakfasts. I know when an asset’s holding back, and this guy wasn’t.’

  ‘Where is he now then?’ asked Liz.

  ‘He said he was going to Israel. That must be where he is now. I know he wasn’t going to be in the country during the peace conference. If that’s what you’re driving at.’

  Liz spoke with deliberate softness. ‘It seems to me Kollek hasn’t always told you the truth about his whereabouts.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Bokus shot back.

  ‘When we met in Thames House, you told me Kollek was away, and had been for a couple of weeks. But he wasn’t - he has been cultivating a woman named Hannah Gold here in London. Kollek chatted her up at the theatre on a day you said he was in Israel.’

  ‘For Christ’s sakes,’ Bokus exclaimed, exasperated. ‘I’m not his goddamned nanny. I don’t keep daily tabs on him.’

  ‘We need to know where he is now.’ Liz felt if she weren’t careful her own irritation would match his. That would be a mistake. So she said as calmly as she could, ‘Since you can’t tell us, I think we only have one option.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We need to speak to Mossad.’

  ‘No!’ Bokus shouted.

  She turned to Oakes. ‘We promised not to go down this route, but I can’t see any other choice. That’s why we’re here. We believe Kollek may present an imminent danger of some kind. I don’t know exactly what yet.’

  Fane intervened now. He said placatingly, ‘Obviously, Ty, if we’re wrong about this, then we’ll apologise. But I’m afraid I support Elizabeth here on this. We have to be sure.’

  ‘But I am sure,’ Bokus said, in a half-howl.

  Liz ignored him and spoke directly to Oakes. It was hard to read what he was thinking. ‘From our point of view, two people who were supposed to be a threat to Syria and the peace conference had been working for Mossad, and one at least had been run by Kollek. I’m sure that’s true -I saw Kollek myself at Marcham’s house. And now Marcham’s dead in suspicious circumstances. We don’t know what any of that means, but we can’t afford to ignore it. And given that the conference is now so close, the whole thing has become desperately urgent.’

  Bokus was looking at Oakes for support, but to Liz’s relief Oakes nodded, to show he accepted the argument. Bokus grew more agitated. ‘Ty, we can’t have this. You want the British to tell Mossad we were running one of their officers? Think of the damage that will do. Kollek is ours. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Steady on,’ said Fane equably. He was only looking at Oakes now. Liz realised Bokus had been relegated to observer status; Oakes was going to be the arbiter.

  Fane continued, ‘That’s the bad news. But we’d be very happy for you to make the approach to the Israelis. Mossad are much more likely to level with you chaps than with us. And in that way, you can control how much Mossad learns about your dealings with Kollek. All we’re looking for is assurance that Mossad has Kollek under control, that they know where he is, and that they can vouch to us that he’s in no position to do any damage to Gleneagles.’

  Bokus was looking intently at Tyrus Oakes. But Oakes wasn’t looking at him; he was looking straight back at Fane.

  ‘OK, Geoffrey. I can see you’re right.’ Bokus shook his head in disgust.

  Liz said, ‘Miles Brookhaven is in Damascus already, and he knows as much as the rest of us about the situation. Could he do it?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Bokus, looking despairingly at Oakes.

  But there was no help coming from that quarter. ‘That makes sense,’ Oakes said. He looked at Bokus, and this time there was a hint of anger in his eyes. ‘Who else am I going to send, Andy? I can’t very well send you to talk with the boys in Tel Aviv, now can I? Not when you’re still insisting that Kollek’s one of the good guys.’

  FORTY-SIX

  Time was running out. There were only five days left before the conference began, and Liz was getting nowhere in finding Kollek.

  Then, just as she’d collected her afternoon mug of tea, onto her desk came Miles’s report from Tel Aviv, marked URGENT. Twenty minutes later she was still reading, while her tea sat untouched.

  At Teitelbaum’s suggestion, they had met, not at the Mossad offices, but in a cafe on the edge of a small plaza in Tel Aviv.

  Its equivalent in Damascus, thought Miles, who had only arrived the night before from Syria, would have been a dark hovel, cramped, filthy, foetid - and full of charm. This cafe was clean and neat, with metal tables and aluminium chairs, and utterly impersonal.

  He’d had drinks the night before with Edmund Whitehouse, the MI6 station head in Damascus, and helped by his description, Miles spotted the Israeli at once. Teitelbaum was sitting at an outside table, under the edge of the cafe’s awning, half in and half out of the sun. He wore a short-sleeved khaki shirt, open at the throat - the informal uniform of Israelis from generals to businessmen - and he was smoking a small brown cheroot and talking into a mobile phone. Looking at Teitelbaum, sitting there with his powerful forearms propped on the table, his bald head gleaming in the bright morning sun, Miles thought he was the spitting image of Nikita Khrushchev.

  Teitelbaum put his phone in his pocket and stood up as Miles approached the table. They shook hands and Miles felt the man’s hand squeeze his with momentary force, then just as quickly relax. See, the gesture seemed to say, I could crush you if I wanted to.

  Miles ordered an espresso from the waiter, then said, ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  Teitelbaum waved a dismissive hand. Then he asked, ‘You have flown from Washington?’

  ‘No. I’ve come from Damascus.’ He wasn’t going to lie; the old fox knew perfectly well where he’d come from.

  Teitelbaum nodded. ‘Ah, our neighbours.’ He held up one arm, and Miles could see a long sliver of pink scar tissue, running in a faint crescent beneath the dark curly hair of his forearm. ‘I have always wanted to see the country that gave this to me. My relic of the Six Day War.’ He looked without emotion at Miles. ‘Now tell me how I can help you and Mr Tyrus Oakes.’

  Across the square a man came out of the doorway of a jeweller’s shop. He was opening up, and bent down to unlock the steel cage-like grille that protected his window display. Miles took a deep breath and said, ‘Almost two months ago we received news of a potential threat to the peace conference that starts next week in Scotland. We were told that two individuals in the UK were working to undermine the Syrians’ participation in the conference.’

  Miles
couldn’t tell how much of this was news to Teitelbaum, but at least he was listening carefully. Miles went on, ‘One of these men is a Lebanese businessman based in London. The other was a British journalist, often in the Middle East.’

  ‘You say he was a journalist?’

  ‘That’s right. He’s dead. Apparently an accident, though some doubts have been expressed.’

  Teitelbaum pursed his lips. ‘What were these men supposed to be doing to damage Syria and affect the conference?’

  ‘It’s not clear, and we may never know. The Lebanese man is in custody now - he’s facing charges over his business dealings, nothing to do with this. But it’s convenient from our point of view that he’s being held.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Teitelbaum, nodding slowly like a Buddha. ‘I can see that. And the other fellow is even more out of the way.’

  Here comes the hard bit, thought Miles, and waited as the waiter delivered his small espresso.

  Miles sipped his coffee - it was bitter and scalding hot. He put two sugar cubes in and stirred the cup while he gathered his thoughts. He could see the jeweller across the way struggling unavailingly with the lock of his grille, then give a gesture of exasperation and go inside his shop.

  ‘In looking into these two men, it was discovered that both of them claimed to be working for your service and one had ties with a member of your embassy in London.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Teitelbaum, as though there was nothing unusual about it. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘His name is Daniel Kollek.’

  He watched Teitelbaum’s face for a reaction. There wasn’t one, which Miles took to be a reaction in itself. Teitelbaum said slowly, ‘I think I may have heard the name. But then, it’s a famous name in this country - you remember the Mayor of Jerusalem.’

  ‘Kollek is attached to the trade delegation, apparently.’

  ‘Really?’ said Teitelbaum with such a show of surprise that Miles was tempted to ask if he’d been to drama school. ‘But what would a trade officer have to do with such men? A Lebanese businessman and a journalist.’