Templar sat beside Danny in the back seat of the Shin Bet LandCruiser as the man in the front passenger seat—Luka—conversed with the analysts in Tel Aviv.
‘What are they saying?’ Templar asked, when there was a lull.
‘I’ve explained that we have a crew of al-Ridha terrorists who’ll be heading for Pontus on Sunday,’ said Luka. ‘They must have a way to get out there, so I’ve asked if there’s a list of boats and ships that are allowed access.’
‘Any luck?’ asked Templar.
‘Not so far,’ chuckled Luka. ‘It can’t be that hard.’
‘We could do it the other way,’ Templar suggested, looking out at the blue waters of the Mediterranean as they sped south towards Hadera. ‘Show some pictures of Salah to some of your favourite faces, and see who freaks out.’
‘What if Salah isn’t showing up in person?’ asked Luka. ‘He could be hiding out and managing the operation. Do we have photos of the three Hezbollah shooters?’
Templar thought about that. ‘You got an informer in Hadera? Someone who knows Hezbollah and doesn’t like being roughed up?’
Luka smiled at his colleague behind the wheel. ‘I think we have just the person, don’t we, Simon?’
Twenty minutes later Luka and Templar walked down an alley ten blocks back from the docks at Port Hadera. They stopped beside a stinking dumpster and stepped through an open door into a tiny kitchen and emerged behind a counter in a cafe, surprising a skinny middle-aged Arab who was watching a TV fixed to the wall.
‘What do you want?’ growled the man, as a young woman in a hijab moved to his side. ‘You can’t just turn up here, like this.’
‘Nice to see you too, Cheesy,’ said Luka. ‘Could we have a chat?’
‘I have nothing to say to the Israeli services,’ the man snapped.
‘Five minutes, then I’m gone.’
Cheesy said something to the woman—probably his daughter, thought Templar—and then the three men adjourned to the kitchen.
‘You want to scare all my customers away?’ demanded the man, tearing off his apron.
‘Salah,’ said Luka, as if Cheesy hadn’t spoken. ‘You seen your buddy Salah lately?’
‘No,’ said Cheesy. ‘He’s too busy making money out of the Russians and Iranians. Why would he be in Hadera?’
‘Do you know?’
‘What can I say to you?’ replied the cafe owner, and Templar saw a liar’s eyes. ‘There’s no al-Ridha here—that’s all up north, Syria.’
Luka said, ‘You know everyone, Cheesy. And I think Salah is in town. Would you like to help me find him?’
Through the fly curtain, Templar could see the daughter leaning in so she could overhear the conversation.
‘I don’t know Salah,’ said Cheesy.
‘You used to,’ said Luka, stepping closer to the shorter man. ‘You used to shift his money around, so I’m sure you still say hello, that sort of thing?’
Cheesy shrugged. ‘I can’t help you,’ he repeated. ‘I’m not in Syria—thank Allah—and I don’t have to know anyone like Salah. No more!’
Leaving through the front door, they strolled down the street to a coffee shop that gave them a good view of Cheesy’s cafe, while Danny and Simon kept an eye on the rear entrance. The cafe closed at 6 p.m., and Cheesy’s daughter came out through the front door at 6.17, locking it behind her. Templar and Luka followed her for several blocks, into an area of Hadera that was more Arab than Jewish, the light growing dim as the sun went down.
‘Interesting,’ said Luka under his breath to Templar, as the daughter hurried through a series of back streets to a small private hotel. ‘Her father’s house is a mile that way.’ He gestured to the north.
They watched as the woman knocked on the door that fronted the street and, after some twenty seconds, was admitted. They couldn’t see who let her in.
She left the hotel five minutes later, crossed the road and boarded a northbound bus.
‘I want to wait,’ said Templar.
Luka nodded. He keyed his radio and told Simon that they were going to watch the hotel.
■
Six hours later they were still watching. The two Israelis were in the LandCruiser around the front of the hotel, and Danny and Templar were standing in the shadows at the rear of the building, where there was a tiny car park. Templar had done a lot of waiting in his life. It didn’t bother him. He wished he’d grabbed some more food when he had the chance and would have loved a glass of wine, but otherwise his eyes were fixed on a second-floor curtain that he’d seen pull back an hour ago. Someone checking to see who was out there? Someone who’d been warned that the Israeli services were sniffing around?
There was a landing on the same floor that opened onto a rear fire escape, which had a light glowing above it. Another hour passed, in which Templar didn’t shift his eyes from the fire escape. Just after 3 a.m. his vigilance was rewarded when the door on the landing eased open and a man stepped onto the rear balcony. His hand covered by a t-shirt, he reached up to remove the light bulb, and in the instant before the light was killed, Templar saw the thin face and bald head of the man they called Salah. There was another brief illumination as Salah lit a cigarette. Templar had to laugh: the man who would blow up the largest rig in the Mediterranean obeyed the no-smoking rules in a hotel.
Templar remained motionless until Salah had butted out his smoke and went back into the hotel, then he whispered to Danny to stay put while he reported to Luka.
He crept around the side of the hotel to the LandCruiser, where he briefed Luka on his find.
‘I’ll call in a response team,’ said Luka, lifting his radio.
‘No,’ said Templar, who preferred to operate in the dark. ‘The girl gave them a warning and they’re probably spooked. Salah removed the light bulb just to have a smoke.’
‘You want to hit them now?’ asked Simon. ‘There could be a lot of guns in there.’
‘We can’t let them go,’ whispered Templar. ‘These neighbour-hoods are crawling with spotters; the cavalry will just trigger them.’
‘What’s your plan?’ asked Luka.
Templar’s adrenaline was running cold, the way he liked it. ‘You got any NVGs?’ he asked.
■
Luka led them to the top of the rear fire escape, the four of them moving slowly, like cats. The steel framework of the fire escape was fairly new and there were few creaks. Templar kneeled at the rear door Salah had come through and picked the lock in the door with a set of levers borrowed from the Shin Bet glove box. His heart was pounding and his throat was dry. There were no foolproof ways to enter a building, but a lot of ways to screw it up and get dead. He forced the lock with only the slightest sound, and held his breath as he pushed it in. They stealthed into the dark, their night-vision goggles showing up an interior landing with only two doors opening onto it. Templar pointed at one and touched his chest, and Luka nodded at the other. The two groups separated and Templar crouched at the door he nominated and very carefully picked the lock. The clicking barrel of the mechanism seemed to roar in his ears, and when the pins fell properly and the lock released, he pushed the door slowly, his ears alert for any sound in the room behind it.
Danny aimed his pistol over Templar’s shoulder as Templar stood in the doorway. He saw two beds, two men sleeping. He edged towards the first bed; the sleeping man’s eyes opened, his head turning towards the door. Templar covered the man’s mouth with his hand as he dived for the throat. Beside him, the second man made a small waking-up sound and then Danny was on him.
The first man struggled until Templar put a neck hold on him with his forearm and introduced his pistol to the man’s eyeball. At that point the man went limp and surrendered.
‘Not a sound,’ whispered Templar into the man’s ear, ‘or I will kill you. Do you understand?’
The man moved his head to indicate that he did.
Templar and Danny and their two captives waited in the dark while a small scuffle broke out in the other room. When it seemed to have concluded, Templar dragged his prey to his feet and walked him through the darkness into the other room.
‘Okay?’ he asked, and Luka’s voice came back: ‘Goggles off, lights on.’
Minutes later, Templar regarded the four al-Ridha men who sat cross-legged on the floor of the hotel room, their wrists zip-tied behind their backs. The oldest, Salah, was around forty, while the youngest looked about nineteen.
‘What kind of country is it where a man is assaulted like this in the middle of the night?’ Salah demanded, defiant and half-naked. ‘Who do you think you are?’
Luka nodded to Templar, who took up the challenge. ‘Game’s up, Salah. There’ll be no rocket attack on Pontus tomorrow.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Templar asked, ‘Who’s taking this EMP machine out to the rig?’
‘My God, you’re French,’ sneered Salah, his eyes filled with hatred. ‘The French and the Israelis—you’re as bad as one another.’
‘There’s an EMP machine going out to the rig tomorrow,’ Templar repeated calmly. ‘Who’s doing it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Salah, smiling.
Templar punched him in the face, hard. Blood and mucus flew and the man’s nose flattened in a blue mess. Salah opened his mouth to scream but Templar sealed it with his hand. ‘Who’s the Haifa crew? Who’s taking this machine out to the rig? Where are the Javelins?’
Salah shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, voice muffled through Templar’s bloodied hand.
Templar pulled his hand back as Salah gasped for breath.
‘We’re a crew for hire,’ spluttered the terrorist. ‘I don’t know about the EMP machine, except that it will be set off.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Templar.
‘It’s true,’ said Salah. ‘The Russians don’t trust us—they trust nobody. They’ve got a way to shut down the safety systems on the rig with this machine, and then we’re putting two Javelin rockets into the rig. We have no other job.’
‘And the Javelins?’ asked Templar. ‘Where are they?’
‘I have coordinates and a time, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It’s a sea rendezvous with a ship.’
‘How were you getting out to the RV?’
Salah laughed.
‘That’s not an answer,’ said Templar.
‘Well,’ said Salah, chuckling, ‘the Russians got us jobs on a fire tug.’
‘You think it’s funny, eh?’ asked Luka. ‘There’s, what, two hundred workers on that rig? Maybe fifty on the processing ship? You burn those people alive for what? A video on YouTube? Was that the plan?’
Salah shook his head. ‘Palestine will be free—you can’t stop it.’
Luka raised his pistol and Templar gestured for him to desist.
‘Which ship were you meeting?’ asked Templar.
‘Golden Lady,’ said Salah, spitting as the blood from his nose ran into his mouth. ‘I don’t know where it’s coming from.’
‘Where’s Lenny Varnachev?’
Salah smiled. ‘In hell, I hope.’