Tel Aviv
Night of the Assassinations
‘We have to meet.’
Those had been Avichai Levin’s only words to Zeb, an hour after he had watched the news in Kadikoy.
That cryptic call, five hours back, had led to his catching the first Turkish Airlines flight out of Istanbul. Direct to Jerusalem. Flight time of just two hours. He was traveling as Jarrett Epstein, exporter of Israeli olives.
He had spent part of the flight trying to make sense of the killings. The entire world wanted a stable Middle East. The assassination of the two Palestinians benefited no country.
He had spoken briefly to Meghan before boarding, but she had no insights for him, either.
‘Need any help?’ she had asked. ‘We’re all free. We can come. There will be enough of us to start a war.’
‘I think the idea, the world over, is to stop one,’ he had replied drily.
He had given up finally and slept. Food and rest. An operative never passed up opportunities for both.
Jerusalem was pleasant, dry, when he landed. He hailed a cab. ‘Tel Aviv,’ he instructed the driver, who set off as if it was NASCAR.
Zeb stopped the driver several blocks from Levin’s office and set off on foot. He backtracked for tails but didn’t spot any. He texted Levin when he was ten minutes away.
The ramsad was waiting for him when he arrived, and hugged him.
‘Shalom,’ Zeb greeted him.
‘Shalom,’ Levin replied automatically and glanced at the passport held in front of him. ‘Jarrett Epstein?’
‘Ken,’ Zeb replied in Hebrew.
‘Wait,’ the Israeli said and disappeared into the building. He returned fifteen minutes later, carrying a lanyard with a keycard dangling off it.
Zeb’s photograph was on it, as was his cover name. They proceeded through the security barriers and went up the elevator in silence.
Levin pointed to a chair when they entered his office and shut the door.
‘What was so important?’ Zeb crossed his legs and surveyed his friend.
The Mossad director had fine lines around his mouth and eyes. His lips were pinched and his cheeks were hollowed.
I’ve seen that look before. When his daughter was killed in New York.
Zeb had hunted the killers down, for which Levin had said only two words, thank you, but had meant much more.
Levin poured water into two glasses and offered one to Zeb.
‘I want you to investigate me.’