With that warning shout, Benazir Saldo opened the door to Room 418. The chambermaid knew it was empty, since the guest had checked out that morning, but calling a warning was second nature to her. Hotel staff never entered a room without doing so, and the Lanesborough strictly enforced the rule.
Saldo propped the door open and began cleaning the suite, starting with the bathroom.
The young Pakistani woman had been working at the Lanesborough for six months, and she performed her tedious work with almost obsessive dedication. It was a job she wanted to keep.
Everything went as usual until she got to the hanging closet. When she opened it, she noticed what looked like currency sticking out of the safe. Reaching in, she picked up a small roll of ten-pound notes that the guest must have forgotten.
Though the bills represented half her weekly salary, Saldo was tempted only for a few seconds. First, because she was honest, and second, because the money could have been left there deliberately, to trap her.
Putting the notes back, she walked over to the night table, picked up the house phone, and pressed the “Housekeeping” button.
When her supervisor answered, she said, “This is Benazir Saldo. I am in Room 418, and I just found some money that was left in the room safe. Can you please send somebody to fetch it?”
“Certainly,” he said. “I’ll come up myself.”
The young maid hung up and continued with her cleaning, carefully making the bed.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that she felt a strange vertigo. At first, she thought it was just a momentary dizziness and forced herself to go on working. But her legs began to fail and her head spun. Though it was against the rules, she dropped into an armchair, unable to move. Her face was covered with sweat, and she could feel her heart racing.
Hearing someone enter the room, Saldo tried to stand up, but a fresh wave of vertigo hit, and she collapsed onto the deep carpet. Her supervisor found her sprawled on the floor at the foot of the bed.
“My God!” he exclaimed.
From the chambermaid’s pallor, he immediately realized that she was gravely ill. He pulled out his cell phone and called security directly.
“I’m in Room 418 with a sick employee, and it seems serious. Send a paramedic right away!”
Saldo was no longer moving. The supervisor took her pulse and found it very faint. Though still breathing, she was obviously in bad shape. While waiting for the paramedics, he retrieved the pound notes from the safe and put them in a hotel envelope marked with the room number.
A few minutes later, a nurse and an EMT came in with a stretcher for Saldo. After they left, the supervisor checked to see that the room had been made up, and left. He decided the chambermaid might just be pregnant, and thought no more about it.
Arriving on a British Airways flight from London, Malko entered the interminable circular hallway that served Ben Gurion Airport’s arrival gates. Hordes of travelers were pouring in from the four corners of the world or milling about, looking for their departure gates. It felt like being in a subway.
He reached the arrivals area along with a heterogeneous crowd of tourists, black-clad Orthodox Jews, and businesspeople.
Malko felt slightly on edge. Despite their legendary caution, the last time he’d been in Israel, the Israelis had tried to kill him.
The lines at immigration were long, and Malko resigned himself to waiting. After half an hour, an impassive immigration officer took his passport, scanned it, asked Malko if he consented to its being stamped. Then he returned it.
Malko was traveling with only carry-on luggage, so he headed directly for the exit. In the crowd of people waiting for arriving passengers he saw a young man holding up a sign with his name.
“I’m John Harding, one of Oliver Snow’s deputies,” said the man, a young American. “He asked me to help you check into the Dan, then bring you to the embassy. He’s expecting you for an early dinner.”
A few minutes later they were on the freeway leading to Tel Aviv, in brilliant sunshine. The closer they got to the city, the worse the traffic.
“Getting into town is a nightmare,” Harding said. “They were supposed to build a train between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, but it never happened.”
Malko looked at the arid landscape around him. A commuter rail line ran along the freeway. There were factories everywhere, a hive of activity.
“What’s the mood in the country like?” he asked.
“Pretty bad,” said Harding. “Most people are just scraping by. There’s no money. Here in Tel Aviv, the Israelis don’t think about the Arabs much. They never see any, except for Israeli Arabs, and the West Bank is far away. All the people here want to do is party and get rich.”
They passed two hitchhiking soldiers in uniform, Galil assault rifles on their shoulders.
A common sight.
Exiting the freeway, Harding headed for downtown.
A blazing late-afternoon sun shone through the tinted windows of the American embassy, which stood above one of Tel Aviv’s most popular beaches.
A series of terraces separated the embassy from Herbert Samuel Street, the beachside promenade, with its falafel stands, beachwear shops, and inexpensive restaurants. A different world.
The building was squeezed between the beach and narrow, noisy Hayarkon Street. Not only was the street always jammed, it was also one-way, which didn’t make getting around any easier.
For some reason, the embassy had been built in the most touristy part of Tel Aviv, near the opera and a trio of luxury hotels: the Hilton, the Sheraton, and the Dan, where Malko was staying.
Though located in a friendly country, the embassy’s security precautions were extreme, even though it had never been attacked. Hamas militants would be the only ones so inclined, and they hadn’t yet reached Tel Aviv.
The building itself was fortified on all sides and protected by a swarm of electronic devices: a secure bubble in the middle of a hostile world. Its flat roof, which bristled with antennas, also served as a heliport. That made it a lot easier to infiltrate CIA operatives into Israel and discreetly fly out friendly Palestinians being pursued by Shin Bet. The embassy’s location at the water’s edge simplified many things.
The United States and Israel were allies, but each side kept a few secrets from the other.
When Malko entered the dining room, Oliver Snow was gazing at the Mediterranean through one of the large picture windows. The CIA station chief turned and came over, smiling warmly.
“Hello, Malko!” he said. “We met briefly about two years ago. I’ll be here for another year before I head back to Langley.”
The station chief was a lanky, somewhat austere-looking man with a long jaw and brown hair. He wore square rimless glasses and a pinstripe suit.
The two men sat down at the big dining table. A Marine waiter brought a bottle of Chablis.
“Welcome to Tel Aviv,” said Snow, raising his glass. “I think your mission here will be pretty simple. But first, let’s have something to eat. I know it’s early, but I figured you might be hungry.”
They served themselves from a long buffet table with grilled, fried, and steamed fish, a selection of Middle Eastern mezes, and American-style salads.
Attentive Marine waiters stood at either end of the table.
As the two men ate, they talked about the region’s problems, including the stalled Israeli-Palestinian talks, which had been at a standstill for years because of Israeli intransigence.
“How did President Obama’s visit go?” asked Malko.
The American president had made a lightning visit to Israel a few weeks earlier.
“It was a nonevent,” said Snow with a sigh. “The president doesn’t want to get enmeshed in a process he doesn’t believe in. Nobody had any great expectations, neither the Israelis nor the Palestinians. Netanyahu doesn’t like Obama and Obama doesn’t like Netanyahu, and that’s it.”
“What about Syria?”
The CIA station chief sighed again.
“That’s a different story! The Israelis basically get along with the Syrians. In thirty years of cold war, there’s never been a major incident between the two countries. When you come right down to it, Israel would be just as happy if al-Assad stayed in power, even if they claim the contrary. Particularly since Assad’s army has been quite successful on the ground. Everyone expected his regime to collapse very quickly, and a lot of countries are now having painful second thoughts. Nobody wants to see al-Qaeda set up shop in Syria, the Israelis least of all.”
Snow continued:
“We were foolish to jump on board the anti-Assad bandwagon so fast. Now we’re trying to put together that damn conference in Geneva, and it’s not happening. Besides, it assumes that the problem will be solved, and that Assad is prepared to step down, which isn’t the case at all.
“Millions of Arabs would like to wipe Israel off the face of the Middle East, but nobody has the military power to do it. Same thing with Assad. As long as the Russians and the Iranians back him, he can hang on indefinitely.”
This wasn’t exactly the official American position, thought Malko. The United States was calling daily for the Syrian president to resign.
“So the Israelis aren’t too worried,” he said aloud.
“No, especially since things inside Israel are pretty calm, and events are going their way. They’re working day and night to colonize the West Bank while trying not to make it look obvious. They hope to make the situation there irreversible. Actually, it already is. Go take a look sometime. You’ll see a patchwork of Palestinian villages and Israeli settlements, too entangled to pull apart.”
“Don’t the Palestinians protest?”
“They’re resigned,” said Snow. “Thanks to the truckloads of cash sent by the European Union, they’re living a little better. The Israelis have eliminated the most annoying checkpoints, and Ramallah, the so-called capital, is awash with money.”
“What about Hamas?”
“They’re as happy as clams at high tide,” said the station chief. “They never did want to negotiate with Israel. And with Qatar coming in on their side, they’re also getting money and weapons, so they’re gathering their forces for a final confrontation. The borders with Egypt have opened a bit, and life is a little easier.
“I think Israel’s only real fear is that Mahmoud Abbas will hand over the keys to the West Bank, which would force them to run the territory. That would be an economic nightmare, because the situation in Israel is already pretty grim. I know families who are living on three thousand shekels a month. There are pockets of poverty along the coast, and wages are very low.”
Snow gestured to the waiter to pour them more wine, then said:
“Let’s get back to the ranch. The London station says you’re here to meet an Israeli named Uri Dan who was Boris Berezovsky’s bodyguard.”
“That’s right,” said Malko. “The Agency is interested in the affair, and I think the man who actually found Berezovsky’s body might have things to tell me. If he’s willing to talk, that is.”
Snow said:
“When I got the message from London, I called one of my counterparts in the Mossad, because I knew Dan had worked for them for a few years. He was willing to give me his address but said Dan no longer had any connection with the Institute. Since leaving the Mossad, he’s worked for a number of private security companies.”
“Did they ask the reason for your request?”
“Yes, of course. I told them the truth. I said the Agency wanted to ask him some questions about Berezovsky’s death. That didn’t seem to be a problem for them.”
This is too good to be true, thought Malko.
“So what’s our next step?” he asked.
“We don’t know if Dan has a new job, so you’ll have to see him at home. My deputy John Harding will drive you; he knows the city very well. But I suggest you try one thing first. We have a source who follows the doings of all the ex-Mossad people, a Haaretz reporter named Yossi Milton. With any luck, he’ll have some information on Dan. Milton knows John and will be waiting for you in front of the Habima Theatre at five o’clock.
“Until then, you can go lie on the beach.”
Looking out at the blue sweep of the Mediterranean, with people playing in the waves, a person would never think he was in a country at war surrounded by hostile neighbors.
The mission was getting off to a pretty good start, thought Malko. The Israelis had no special reason to be interested in Berezovsky’s death. They didn’t have to provide the ex-Mossad man’s address, but they had.
“I have to leave you now,” said the CIA station chief. “John will pick you up at your hotel in an hour. Good luck!”