She sat staring sightlessly at the window, torn between duty and love, desperately weighing the facts and probabilities for the last time.
What would happen if she walked out now? Where would she go? Back to Tel Aviv, and languish in her apartment without a job, hoping for him to call? How could she have any measure of control over events, over her man, over her life, if she did that? How long would this business take? Months, or even years? How long had it taken to find Adolf Eichmann? Klaus Barbie? How long had Mossad and Wiesenthal looked for Josef Mengele?
She heaved herself up off the bed and began to pace across the room, trying fiercely to concentrate.
She was deeply in love. So, of course she wanted to marry him. Not necessarily on Monday, she just wanted to stay with him for ever – so going back to Tel Aviv was out of the question, and so was going to live on his boat until this was over. For him she would sleep on bare boards, but no way could she languish on his boat ploughing up and down the Atlantic knowing what he was up against and waiting patiently for him to come back either triumphant or defeated. Or dead. No way could she turn her back on the case now.
And no way could she stick on the case in her ‘official capacity’ either; no way could she continue to deceive him. Doubtless one day she would lead him into an ambush, because soon Matt would get impatient and send the boys in to work him over to get Muller’s assumed name out of him, as well as the print-out. In fact, she was damn sure the boys were in this hotel right now.
She gave a deep, tense sigh. And she couldn’t betray her own side either. She had taken the Armed Services Oath, and a broken oath meant a court martial, and on a case as important as this to the collective heart of Israel, that meant a long, long time. No, there was no way she could betray her own side, she wanted Heinrich Muller as fervently as anyone. But she was simply not the right person for the job any more. She had disqualified herself – by falling in love.
Okay, that left only one thing to do: stay on the case ‘unofficially’. Quit the case officially and go to James McQuade with her heart in her hand and tell him the truth, tell him she was going to stick with him come hell or high water, and help him find Heinrich Muller, get the loot, then hand the bastard over to Mossad. That way she still did her duty to Mossad in the end. And to McQuade.
Okay. That only left the immediate problem of protecting him. Getting him out of this hotel before Matt and the boys closed in on him.
It took her two minutes to pack his bag. Then she telephoned the reception desk, confirmed that McQuade had paid the bill in advance, and asked for a porter to be sent up with the receipt. She gave him her car keys and told him to take their bags and the uniforms to her car. She tipped him twenty rand. Ten minutes later he returned the keys.
She looked at her watch. It was fifty minutes since McQuade had left. Just then the telephone rang. She snatched it up. ‘Hullo!’
McQuade announced cheerfully, ‘Your hour’s up. I’ll be up in five minutes.’ He hung up.
She replaced the receiver. She went to the mirror and took an anxious look at herself. She was pale. She was dreading what she had to tell him now. What she said and did now could break their relationship and send him plunging off furiously into the night, never to return. She whispered fervently, ‘Please help me, now, God …’ Then the telephone rang again.
She snatched it up again. ‘Hullo?’
Matt said grimly, ‘Don’t let him do any moonlight flits with those nice new uniforms provided by the Israeli taxpayer. Why has your baggage been taken from your room?’
She closed her eyes. So the boys were here. She said quietly, ‘Request to be relieved of my duties immediately, sir.’
There was a stunned silence. Then: ‘You will stay at your post, young lady!’
‘Then I hereby resign my commission, sir.’
‘Your resignation is hereby refused, woman! You will remain at your post or face court martial! You are subject to the Armed Services Act!’
‘And that Act says that no officer shall be required to obey an order that is illegal or immoral!’
‘There’s nothing unlawful or immoral about your orders! And you accepted the assignment!’
She clenched her teeth, then said quietly, ‘Circumstances have changed. I’m quitting this case. And getting married.’
She quietly but firmly put the telephone down.
McQuade rode up in the gilded elevator with four other people. He was feeling on top of the world. He was going to marry the most wonderful girl and things were going his way thanks to her. Those uniforms were masterpieces and he was going to be very rich indeed and they were going to live happily ever after. One of the women smiled at him. ‘You look as if you’ve had a winning streak?’
He grinned at her. ‘Yes, I have.’
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and the two women got out. McQuade smiled at the two men remaining. The elevator rose and stopped on the seventh floor. They all got out.
One man turned left, the other right. He hurried down the corridor, then entered the room immediately before McQuade’s. McQuade strode down the corridor behind him. As he came abreast of the room before his, an arm reached out and grabbed his collar, the man who had gone in the other direction raced up behind him, and McQuade disappeared inside.
In one shocking jolt McQuade was wrenched out of the corridor, a hand over his mouth, and then he was crashing onto a bed. He sprawled on his side, his mouth clamped shut by a hard hand, his left arm wrenched up behind his back. He lay there, shocked, immobilized, his twisted arm in agony. Then another man was standing over him. He was big. He said in a thick South African accent: ‘Sorry to do this to you, Mr McQuade.’ He put his hand in his jacket pocket, pulled out a wallet, flicked it open: ‘Sergeant van Tonder, South African police. Now, we’d like to make this easy for you, so if you cooperate we’ll take the pressure off your arm.’ He paused. ‘As you probably know, you are under suspicion of murder in Namibia.’ He smiled. ‘As it happens, sir, I don’t believe you’re guilty. I personally believe that you are looking for the murderer of Jakob and his family. Now, all I want to do is help you – we are both after the same chap, hey.’ He cocked his eyebrows encouragingly. ‘But you’re at a disadvantage, sir, because you are not an expert policeman, with all due respect. But, me …?’ He smiled. ‘Not only am I an expert, but I have the whole South African police force behind me to catch this man. For us.’ He smiled down at McQuade. ‘All I need is the name of the man you are looking for, sir.’ He raised his eyebrows encouragingly again. ‘So let’s have it, and finish this nonsense? But,’ he held up a finger, ‘one peep and it’s going to be unpleasant.’ He said to the man holding McQuade, ‘Let go his mouth.’
The man took his hand away. McQuade flexed his sore lips.
‘Okay, Klaas, let him sit up.’
The pressure came off McQuade’s arm, and the relief was enormous. But the man still held him half-locked. McQuade got up into a seated position. He glared. ‘We’re in the independent state of Bophuthatswana and the South African police have no jurisdiction here!’
Sergeant van Tonder smiled. ‘Absolutely correct. Except that we’re collaborating with the Bophuthatswana police. And with the Namibian police.’ He said to Klaas, ‘Let go of him.’
The man released his wrist. McQuade massaged his bicep, his mind racing.
‘Show me your warrant. If you’re police you didn’t need to pounce on me, you’d have arrested me normally.’
Sergeant van Tonder frowned, then appealed to his colleague, ‘Mr McQuade doesn’t believe us, hey? So we’ll just have to take him to the police station.’
‘Bullshit! Show me your warrant!’
There was a crack across his face as the man swiped him. McQuade saw stars. He sprawled on the bed, shocked, his ears ringing.
‘What’s the man’s name?’ van Tonder said softly.
McQuade scrambled up, but the hand flashed again and there was another explosion in his head. Klaas grabbed at his arm again, but McQuade whirled and swiped him blindly in the face with his elbow, and the man sprawled backwards. McQuade whirled the other way and saw the sergeant lunging at him with a karate blow. McQuade blocked it, his right fist swung with all his might into the man’s guts and he gasped and staggered. Then Klaas came bounding in an avalanche of bloodied fury, and all McQuade knew was red-black stars and the breath knocked out of him. He crashed into the wall with the bloodied avalanche after him, and he butted his forehead furiously against the wild face and swung his fist with all his might again, and Klaas staggered backwards. McQuade reeled wildly for the door, bloodied, stumbling, but van Tonder seized him by the collar and slung him, and at the same moment the door shook and Sarah cried, ‘Open up or I’m calling the management!’
McQuade sprawled. Sergeant van Tonder wrenched the door open and grabbed furiously at Sarah, but she jerked back, and squirted something from a canister. Van Tonder reeled back into the room, his hands clutching his screwed-up face. Sarah plunged into the room, slammed the door behind her, bounded at Klaas as he reached his feet, and squirted her canister. He collapsed back against the wardrobe, clutching his bloodied face.
McQuade scrambled up, shaking, astonished. Sarah stood in the middle of the room, eyes blazing, then she bounded at Klaas, grabbed his hair and wrenched back his head. He looked at her through his fingers, his eyes streaming. She snorted, ‘You.’ She rammed her hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a set of car keys, then gave him another squirt with the canister. He collapsed with a gasp, clutching his face. She turned on Sergeant van Tonder and gave him another squirt, making him gasp. She frisked him in a flash for car keys and found none. She snapped: ‘Who the hell are you?’ The man clutched his face, his eyes streaming. Sarah snapped: ‘Do you tell me, or do you want another dose of Mace?’
The man turned his head away. ‘Bazil Cohen,’ he gasped. ‘Jewish Defence Organization …’
She snorted: ‘Better stick to your ledgers, Bazil.’ She turned back to her other victim. She held the canister up and hissed: ‘Just you leave him alone, huh?’ She glared, then backed off across the room, her canister of Mace at her hip like a pistol. The two men were still clutching their faces. McQuade stared at them all, absolutely astonished. Sarah turned and grabbed the door handle. She flung it open and grabbed McQuade’s hand.
She ran him down the corridor towards the emergency stairway.