The small town of Eilat is a representative microcosm—in essence, it is a reflection of the Jewish state itself within the greater Middle East. A community effectively surrounded by hostile factions, it lays bracketed on two sides by Jordan and Egypt’s unruly Sinai, and on the others by the sea and forbidding terrain. Across the deceptively calm waters to the south, Saudi Arabia can clearly be seen, and Israel’s more cosmopolitan regions lay far to the north across the desolate Negev Desert. Yet Eilat’s isolation is also its greatest virtue, and at vital junctures in Israel’s history it has served as the country’s lifeline, offering vital access to the Gulf of Aqaba and the Red Sea. That importance was proved soon after the establishment of statehood, when Egypt closed the Suez Canal to vessels destined for Israel’s Mediterranean ports. Eilat, waking from its dust-covered slumber, emerged as the nation’s lone foothold for trade with the east.
As a consequence of this strategic lesson, the facilities of the Port of Eilat have since been deliberately overbuilt, providing far more capacity than necessary to support a seasonal tourist town of fifty thousand residents. In the event of a crisis, the seaport can be transformed into a shipping hub capable of supporting a nation. On this particular late October day, Eilat was Slaton’s destination for reasons that were not unrelated. He, in concert with Mossad, needed access to the Red Sea.
With time being critical, Slaton was whisked from the Rome embassy back to Fiumicino Airport—this time not to the passenger terminal, but to a more sedate corner of the airfield where a sleek Learjet stood waiting. The aircraft wore generic markings, giving Slaton no hint as to whose little air force it belonged—Mossad’s or the CIA’s. That question was answered when he was greeted in Hebrew by the captain, and then a flight attendant.
The jet was built for speed, and with a seasonal tailwind the flight took slightly less than three hours. For much of that time Slaton slept in a plush leather seat, and by the time the wheels were lowered for landing, evening had made its arrival. Through the oval side window he saw the distant glow of Eilat, a wash of shimmering amber in the gathering desert night.
The Lear came to rest near a midsized building where a half dozen other jets waited for well-heeled owners. Slaton recognized the place as an FBO, or fixed base operator—effectively, a terminal for private and corporate aviation. Inside he encountered a cursory display of customs and immigration, a man and a woman who were actually waiting for him, and who spent less than a minute going over his documents. That done, he walked outside and immediately spotted a familiar face. Anton Bloch was standing next to a small Kia SUV—among the most commonplace cars in Israel.
“Hello, Anton.”
“It is good to see you, David.”
“I keep thinking you might actually retire someday.”
“You should know better by now. For me there can be no retirement—only sporadic periods of rehabilitation.”
Bloch was Slaton’s original mentor, indeed the man who’d recognized his talent, and handpicked him to become what he was—something that over the years, the protégé had still not decided whether to forgive. Bloch had served as Mossad director for much of Slaton’s time there, and since “retiring” had become something of a special projects manager for the new director, Raymond Nurin. For all their turbulent history, Slaton’s relationship with Bloch today was distilled to one event: the man had once put his life on the line for Christine. That he would never forget.
He threw his small suitcase in the back, and took the passenger seat as Bloch drove. This in itself was a curiosity—former Mossad directors were generally given drivers, and always warranted protection.
“Where’s your detail?”
“I am, as they say, working without a net. This business in the Red Sea came up quite suddenly, and Nurin asked for my help in facilitating things. Security would have been an unnecessary complication.”
Slaton felt a response rising about the complications of having no security, but let it pass. Instead, he said, “Facilitating? Because I’m involved?”
“And there is something I’d like to know—how do you manage to insert yourself so regularly into Israel’s affairs?”
“Trust me—I ask myself that very same question.”
The two exchanged status reports on their families, and as they did Slaton regarded his old boss, thinking he looked surprisingly fit and relaxed. Surprising because he never imagined that any former director of Mossad could find health, let alone peace, given the gallery of death and misdeeds they’d spent a career both arranging and suffering.
The only real stunner in their exchange came from Bloch. “My daughter has decided to enter the service.”
Slaton stared at his old boss. “Mossad?”
Bloch nodded.
“The last I heard she was at university.”
“I argued against the idea as best I could. I assured her it would lead to nothing but a lifetime of pain and misery. She seems to have inherited my stubbornness.”
Slaton looked out the far window to conceal his grin.
“We’ve been setting up shop since this morning,” Bloch said, clearly changing the subject.
“Where?”
Bloch reached into the back seat and retrieved a hardhat with an ID attached by a small metal clip. He handed it across and Slaton saw a poor quality picture of himself, probably taken years ago. Under his photograph was the certainly fictitious logo of something called CSR International.
“What am I?” he asked.
“Make something up. A welder. Our base of operations is in a very quiet corner of the port complex. It’s a trailer, hasn’t been used since our naval interdiction campaign of 2002.”
“Sounds cozy.”
“We swept out the vermin only this afternoon.”
“We?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. For now, expect a thirty-minute drive. I’d suggest you relax. It may be a very long night.”
In spite of the sleep he’d caught on the Lear, Slaton didn’t argue. Bloch knew more than he did about the timetable for the next twenty-four hours—and rest was among the most important of preparations for any mission.
He reclined the seat and closed his eyes.