Somewhere over India, flying through a turbulent and pitch-black night, Slaton heard Christine’s voice in his semiconscious head.
“What now, David?”
“It’s your decision. The first option is to go to France and get to the bottom of this. I can try to find out why a terrorist I killed fifteen years ago is a senior intelligence officer in DGSI.”
“And if it’s true?”
“Then he’s a threat to us.”
A pause. She knew him well enough not to ask what that meant. “Would you do it alone?”
“I’d ask Israel for help. But the chances are good that they won’t go near it.”
“Even if they were the ones who ordered you to kill this man in the first place?”
“It’s complicated.”
“No, David, it’s insane.”
“Agreed. But we can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”
“And the other option? You and I take Davy on the high seas, sail as far away as we can? We already did that. We could hardly be more remote than we are today. Whoever is behind this … they’ve found us once. They attacked you.”
He remained silent.
“You’re going to make me choose, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry. You know it’s the only way.…”
Slaton’s eyes blinked open. He saw a flight attendant passing on his right, a stout drink in her hand and a business-class smile on her face. The air route from a remote island in the Philippines to Israel is both lengthy and indirect. Knowing it would take the best part of a day, he’d upgraded to a sleeper seat and intended to use it. He’d almost succeeded over Myanmar, but was interrupted by a burst of turbulence—mountain wave from the Himalayas.
On the tiny television in front of him he saw a map of southern Asia. A graceful arcing line connected Manila to Tel Aviv, and the airplane symbol was reaching the midpoint. In Manila he’d bought a prepaid phone, and sent a text message to a very private number in Israel. It was worth a try, but he doubted Mossad would help. The current director was a calculating man with a strong aversion to risk. His predecessor, however, who had recruited Slaton and run him for years, was more approachable.
Anton Bloch always did what was best for Israel. He was also responsible for Slaton and Christine being in the situation they were in today. For that reason, he thought Bloch might at least listen.
* * *
Slaton arrived in Tel Aviv at 11:03 the next morning. Customs was uneventful, and his legacy Mossad-issued passport, three years old but not yet expired, held up as expected. He kept two other identities that Mossad knew nothing about, but for the moment overtness was to his advantage. The Mossad item would serve as his calling card.
As if to prove the point, he was not yet out of the terminal building when a familiar profile caught his attention. Just beyond the first baggage turnstile Slaton spotted the distinctively brusque profile of Anton Bloch.
As Bloch began walking away, without a trace of recognition, Slaton thought he discerned a slight hitch in the former Mossad director’s gait. He wondered if it was a result of what had happened two years ago. Bloch had taken a bullet to save Christine, and nearly died because of it—which was probably why he was the only person tied to Mossad that Slaton still trusted. Bloch was officially retired, yet invariably kept a hand in things. Watching him walk away, with his heavy stride and brooding form, Slaton remembered Christine’s two-word account of the man: endearingly sullen.
At a distance, Slaton followed his former boss through a little-used side entrance, and watched him disappear into a sedan parked along the curb. Thirty seconds later he was sitting beside him. Without a word, the driver accelerated into traffic.
As a greeting, Bloch said, “You get more fit every time I see you.” His voice was unchanged, a baritone grinder that crushed letters into words.
“I’ve been working hard. Lots of sun and fresh air. You seem to be holding up.” It was true. Limp aside, Bloch looked far more robust than the last time Slaton had seen him. His sturdy build had thinned, and judging by the tan on his nearly bald head, Slaton guessed that he too had been spending time outdoors.
“Miriam has acquired a passion for creating healthy food, and my wayward daughter has finally recognized the relevance of a good education.”
“What’s she studying?”
“Political science, God help us.”
“Maybe she’ll follow in her father’s footsteps.”
Bloch dispensed his signature glare. “You always were one of the few who would goad me.”
“I think I’ve earned it. I’m guessing my passport flagged as designed?”
“Allow an old spymaster a few indulgences, David. But don’t worry—when I received your message I was very discreet. Aside from Director Nurin, only one technician, who you will soon meet, is aware of your arrival. The rest of Mossad still thinks what they have long thought—that David Slaton, the legend, paid the ultimate price for his country. There is even a cryptic star in the lobby of the main office that many believe is a memorial to you.”
“How uplifting.”
“Be thankful—someday it will be true.”
Slaton didn’t reply.
“Will you tell me what this is about?” Bloch asked.
“I told you in the message—Ali Samir.”
“But you said nothing other than the name. You dealt with Samir a very long time ago—what relevance could he have today?”
“Have you recalled the files on the mission?”
“As you asked, yes.”
“Then I’ll explain when we can look at them together.”
Bloch frowned but did not argue.
“I take it we’re not going to Glilot Junction?” Slaton asked, referring to Mossad’s new headquarters facility.
Bloch gave a mirthless chuckle. “Certainly not. A nondescript house in a quiet neighborhood is the most hospitality you can expect these days.”
“How is the director?”
“Nurin is as ever. He tells me what he wants to tell me, and most of it is the truth—at least, as far as he knows it.”
“Is your technician at the safe house?”
“Yes. A very attractive young woman who knows a great deal about computers and nothing about legendary assassins—not unless I ask her to research it. I’ve told her you are an unimportant nuisance. I also mentioned that you are happily married and will be immune to her charms.”
“Was that necessary?”
“You know how my mind works, David—remove every possible complication.”
Slaton loosely tracked their progress, and saw that they were heading west toward the coast. The Ayalon Highway gave way to a secondary road somewhere south of Jaffa. The city seemed unchanged, notwithstanding construction barriers that fronted rising sandstone apartment buildings and expanding businesses, all of which spoke of a strong economy. The landscape was endurance itself, arid and dusty, carob and acacia trees battling for moisture among patches of brown dirt. He had not been to Israel in some time—was it two years already?—yet after thirty minutes he felt the connection, the intimate familiarity. Yet while Slaton had spent many years here, his associations were always fleeting, even as a child. A year on the kibbutz, then school in Stockholm. Training sessions in the Negev, followed by a mission in Hamburg. His regular repatriations approached something migratory, a bird finding its way to an agreeable season. All the same, Israel was and would always be his homeland. The place where his journeys began.
The car nosed toward a tall and elegant building, then circled to one side. At a gated parking-garage entrance, the driver entered a code. The door lifted and the car pulled inside, ending at one of four matching elevators. Slaton and Bloch got out, and without a word spoken the car accelerated away. Judging by the other vehicles in the garage—all European, with Italy and Germany well represented—Mossad was not facing budgetary shortfalls.
Proving the point further, the elevator rose to the ninth floor out of a possible ten—penthouses, apparently, were either out of reach or deemed indiscreet—to deposit them at the private entrance of a sprawling condominium. There was an expansive main room, backed by a kitchen that was a sea of black-steel appliances. To either side Slaton saw deep bedrooms through open doors. The furniture and decorative accents were all first class.
“Safe houses were a little more rustic in my day.”
“Don’t worry, we haven’t lost our heads. The place isn’t ours—only a loaner from a sayan who is unavoidably out of the country for a time.”
Sayanim were one of Mossad’s long-held advantages—civilians who gave assistance to the Jewish cause, material and expertise, with no questions asked. “How long do you have it?” Slaton asked, staring out a twenty-foot-wide window that offered a stunning view of the sun-bleached Mediterranean.
“Our benefactor is ten months into a twenty-month sentence, a very comfortable lockup in Florida.”
Slaton stared at his old boss.
Bloch waved his hand dismissively. “A minor indiscretion involving taxes. I hear he is using the interlude to write a novel.”
Slaton heard someone push back a chair in the room to his right.
Bloch leaned toward him and said in a hushed voice, “Talia doesn’t know your background … you can choose whether to keep it that way.”
She materialized from the side room, and did not disappoint. Talia was in her late twenties, tall and rail-thin. Her hair was long and black, framing stunning features and a pair of almond-shaped hazel eyes.
“Talia, I would like you to meet David.” The two shook hands, Slaton smiling inwardly as Bloch expanded to Talia, “It’s not his real name of course, but he usually answers to it.”
“You operational types are always so obtuse,” she said, adding a smile that seemed to brighten the room.
“I extracted Talia out of Research Administration for a few days. What she doesn’t know about computers is not worth knowing.”
She looked appreciatively out the window. “The view is far better than the bunker where they usually have me chained. I might get used to this.”
“You shouldn’t,” Bloch admonished. He turned to Slaton and said, “Talia is a prodigy. She is better at what she does, David, than you are at what you do.”
“And what is that?” she asked.
Bloch answered, “David has a very sharp eye and a steady hand. He is a first-class stonemason.”
“A stonemason,” she repeated.
“I’m not that good, but I do have a passion for it. I recently spent time restoring some sixteenth-century work in Malta—now there were some artisans.”
“Is that why Anton has brought you here? To build walls?”
Slaton grinned.
“Never mind,” she said. “The two of you can have your little secrets.”
Bloch, stoic as ever, said, “All will become clear in time. I think we should get to work.”
* * *
For all the transgression of the Americans, Malika acknowledged their one great contribution to civilization: pizza that was delivered to one’s door. It was cheap, involved little effort, and on this night permitted her to avoid the ocean of cameras watching over Paris.
She lifted the cardboard lid and pulled out the last piece, then shoved the empty box across the dining room table in her flat’s kitchenette. The meat-covered slice dripped grease onto the table, and as she attacked the pointed end, a message flashed to her secure phone. She tapped the screen and called it up, at the price of an oily stain on the phone’s screen. It was a message from Raqqa. She’d been hoping for another, one from the other side of the world. That communication, or soon the absence of it, would have considerable effects on her near-term planning.
She studied the text. It began with an address in Saint-Denis, and ended with threatening language, both to be relayed to Argu. Chadeh was getting impatient for the information he’d been demanding for weeks.
She considered whether to rephrase the message before forwarding it to Baland. As it was, the wording was terse, unyielding, and held a slight suggestion of violence. Seeing nothing she could improve, Malika sent it off into space. She relished making Baland sweat.
She was getting quite good at it.