Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
Chapter One
July is always hot in Israel, and riding in a car that wasn't air-conditioned only made us more uncomfortable. My main concern was that the heat might cause the makeup on our faces to soften and wreck my scheme for catching off guard the SLA agents in the House of Medals. I wanted to take at least one SLA member alive, more if possible, and Leah Weizmann and I could hardly walk into the religious shop and pose as elderly tourists with greasepaint flowing down our faces. However, the Hamosad makeup experts had assured us that the cosmetics were impervious to heat and perspiration and could only be removed by a special solution of alcohol, glycerol and something called somandaline. Two bottles of the stuff were in the dashboard of the Volvo. The Hamosad makeup boys had been right: I could sweat through the cosmetics and even wipe my face without harming any of the tints or shades or "wrinkles."
I glanced at Leah who was sitting next to me in the back seat of the Volvo, and marvelled at how the Hamosad intelligence experts had transformed both her face and figure. Underneath all the war paint, Leah was a very attractive young woman, a Sabra, a native-born Israeli whose slim body was tanned and curved in all the right places. Her soft hair, as black as a raven's feathers, curled at the ends but otherwise fell straight and shiny around her face. Her face was beautifully shaped, her sable eyes made large and somewhat dolllike by the long dark lashes. Her mouth was a bit too large, but she had a wonderful smile with a dimple in the left corner. The rest of Leah was built to match — breasts that were full and round, that always seemed to be struggling for release; a slim waist; nicely rounded hips; long, deeply tanned legs that could almost squeeze a man to death in bed.
But now, Leah looked like a woman in hear early sixties, her skin wrinkled, her lips thin and pale, a gray wig covering her own dark hair. Her full breasts had been flattened, her figure padded in strategic places to make her look dumpy, a victim of middle-age spread.
The Israeli makeup experts had worked the same kind of magic on me, adding thirty years to my own face and placing a gray-white wig over my own brown hair. I was still luckier than Leah. I didn't have to be tortured by any padding under my summer-weight suit. I'm lean and well-muscled and that was enough. And who said that an "old man" has to be fat? As for height, by bending over slightly and using a cane, I could give the impression of not being too tall.
Feeling me watching her, Leah turned to me, her eyes questioning.
"Anything wrong, Nick? Don't you dare tell me my makeup is starting to run! Yours looks all right."
I reached down and squeezed her hand. "I was thinking that it's not going to be easy in the House of Medals," I said. "Since the clerks are members of the Syrian Liberation Army, they have to be first-class fanatics. People like that would rather die than admit defeat. You shouldn't be going in there with me."
Leah shook her head, pushed her knee against mine and looked deeply into my eyes. "We've been all through that, Nick," she said matter-of-factly. "We both know that our chances of pulling this off are better if we stick to the original plan. An elderly couple is not going to arouse suspicion. You know I'm right. So don't try to talk me out of it. And quit worrying."
I didn't try to dissuade Leah from going with me. Nor was I worried; I was concerned. The mission, only a month old, was stalled with dead ends and lack of any real progress. The raid on the religious shop, if successful, would change all the failure. If we could capture just one SLA agent and make him talk, we might be able to develop new leads.
"We're on the outskirts of Jerusalem," the Hamosad driver of the Volvo called back. "Another fifteen minutes and we should be there."
A short-haired man with a thick mustache, the driver was the same man who had contacted Leah and me a week ago. Then he had posed as a cab-driver.
I watched the traffic that was getting heavier from both directions, leaned back and relaxed, my thoughts backtracking to how the mission had begun. I had been enjoying a vacation on a lake in Maine, when a Control Agent had gotten word to me: Hawk wanted to see me in Washington — and fast. I had hurried back, going straight to DuPont Circle where AXE, the super-secret U.S. espionage agency, has its headquarters, under the cover of the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services.
David Hawk hadn't called me to D.C. to ask about my fishing. Apparently, AXE had learned that the Syrian Liberation Army, a deadly organization of Arab terrorists dedicated to killing every Israeli on the face of the earth, was planning to expand its murderous activities to the U.S. in an attempt to incite the American people enough so they would demand that the government stop giving military aid to Israel.
As Hawk had explained the SLA plan, a large part of it involved the planting of time bombs aboard a supertanker carrying liquefied natural gas from the Soviet Union to the United States. The bombs would be set to explode when the giant nine hundred-foot-long vessel entered New York City harbor and started on its way to a specially designed dock near the Arthur Kill, a channel separating Staten Island from New Jersey.
In his growl of a voice. Hawk had rattled off facts and figures, explaining that LNG is natural gas turned into liquid for shipment and storage, with its volume reduced six hundred times by bringing its temperature down to 260 degrees below zero. The liquid rapidly turns to gas when exposed to normal air or water temperatures. Should the tanks rupture in a supertanker, which carries about four million gallons of LNG, the gas would cover an area ten miles long. Normally odorless, colorless and tasteless, the Death Cloud, with a temperature of about one-hundred sixty degrees below zero at its center, would freeze enough water vapor to become visible — if the spill were over water. But should a single spark touch the cloud, it would explode into raging flames, incinerating everything beneath it. If the cloud did not explode, it would freeze anything that came in contact with it, or it would suffocate anyone who did not freeze first.
Then Hawk had given me the worst news of all: Such a death cloud, whether it exploded or not, could kill as many as one million people!
My assignment was to find out the name of the supertanker, how the bombs, or bomb, were to be planted, and the names of the SLA agents who would plant them.
Where would I begin? Hawk had provided the answer before I could ask him. AXE had acquired the full cooperation of the Hamosad, the Israeli Intelligence Service. No, Hawk had explained, I wouldn't fly directly to Israel. Instead, I would go to London and there make contact with a woman operative of Hamosad. Posing as husband and wife, we'd use the cover that we were Britishers on a vacation to the Holy Land. And how would I find this Israeli Mata Hari in merry ole England? All I had to do. Hawk had said, was register as "Charles Heines" at the Mount Royal Hotel in the exclusive Mayfair district. In fact, an AXE agent in London had already made reservations for me.
Leah Weizmann had found me, the same day that I had registered.
Three days later, Leah and I had taken a BOAC flight to Israel and were in the Samuel Hotel in Tel Aviv, in a suite of rooms overlooking the sunny Mediterranean. Personally, it was an arrangement I enjoyed, especially since Leah's reasoning was as pragmatic as my own. We had registered at the Samuel as "Mr. and Mrs. Charles Heines"; our passports said we were "Mr. and Mrs. Charles Heines." Why not enjoy the arrangement? Besides, the bedroom of the suite had only one king-sized bed.
Leah and I were under cover in more ways than one. Under no circumstances were we to go to Hamosad headquarters in the Histadrut Building. Hamosad would contact us and had done so as Leah and I had toured Tel Aviv, or Tel Aviv Yafo as the Israelis call their main city. Often our contact had been another "tourist," or a «guide»; at other times, a "cabdriver."
During those weeks, our Hamosad contacts had kept Leah and me informed of developments. The catch was that there hadn't been any developments. All Hamosad had learned was that SLA headquarters was based somewhere in Syria and that its leader was Mohammed Bashir Karameh, a Palestinian who was an ex-school teacher.
Finally a Hamosad agent had come to the Samuel on a two-fold mission: to deliver an attaché case from Hawk and to apprise us of Hamosad's latest scheme. At the time, the attaché case had not been a mystery. I knew it contained Wilhelmina, my 9-millimeter P08 Luger, Hugo, my pencil-thin stiletto; and Pierre, my special gas bomb.
But I hadn't been prepared for the second part of the agent's mission. Neither had Leah.
The agent had explained that for almost two months the Shin Bet — uniformed Israeli security — and the Hamosad had been watching an Arab place of business in Jerusalem, a small shop that sold religious items to tourists, items that only Christians would buy. Hamosad believed that the House of Medals was the headquarters of the SLA cell in Jerusalem. In several days the Shin Bet would raid the House of Medals.
I had disagreed completely with the strategy and had informed the Hamosad that one man would have a better chance of capturing members of the Syrian terrorist organization in the shop, than dozens of Shin Bet boys. At first, the big brass in Hamosad had been reluctant, but finally I had persuaded the Israelis to come around to my logic, pointing out that if the Shin Bet surrounded the shop there would be a lot of corpses. It wouldn't be easy to storm the place. And suppose the SLA crackpots destroyed the shop with explosives? Scores of people would be killed or wounded. Another flaw in the Hamosad's plan was that there were numerous possibilities of escape from the shop, unless the SLA people inside were taken by surprise. The streets of the Temple Area were as narrow as alleys and they twisted and climbed in crooked patterns. Some of the streets were covered and resembled tunnels. There were all manner of steep passages and declivities. If any of the SLA members escaped to this maze of streets, they'd never be caught. One man would have a better chance of taking the SLA off guard and completing the raid with some measure of success.
What I hadn't counted on was Leah's insistence that she go along. Nor had I been able to throw up a counter-argument, for what she had said made sense. If one person had a good chance, then two should be twice as good, especially if they were disguised as an elderly man and woman.
The next day, Leah and I had gone to a Hamosad «safe» house on Derech Hagevura Street, and Hamosad makeup experts had gone to work on us. Three hours later, Leah and I were on our way to Jerusalem.
Chapter Two
The Volvo bounced along over the rough stones of the road.
"We'll turn on Shlomo Hamelech and enter the Temple Area by way of the NewGate entrance," the driver called over his shoulder. "The House of Medals is on St. Francis Way."
"Yes, I know the area," Leah said. "St. Francis Way is only a short distance from the New Gate Road. Let us out close to the Holy Sepulchre. We'll walk the rest of the way."
The driver slowed the car and we proceeded in silence. I had been in Jerusalem before and this was familiar territory to me. Nothing had changed. Hebrew and Arab newspapers were still being sold from the same stands. But cigarettes had risen in price. The Volvo passed a sign: American cigarettes $1.80 a pack.
Slowly, we drove past tiny stalls selling a favorite tidbit, round rolls encrusted with sesame seeds and served with hard-boiled eggs. Other stalls sold gazoz, a raspberry-flavored carbonated water. There were open sheds displaying felael, a kind of vegetarian meatball made of chick-peas and peppers; and neat Occidental posters advertising Ponds Almond Cream. There were stalls of dried figs, miniature apricots, almonds from the other side of the Jordan, mysterious-looking herbs from India, walnuts, vine leaves, and bright-orange lentils.
Leah turned to me and placed her hand on my arm. "You've been very silent, Nick." Her voice was as soft as rose petals. "But you shouldn't worry about me. I've seen my share of violence."
I realized that like all Israeli girls Leah had seen service in the small Israeli Army. Just the same, if she came unglued if and when the shooting started, the whole damn deal could fall apart. I was going to have enough to do without having to watch out for her. But only a fool or a philosopher ever tells a woman what he's really thinking. I was neither.
I looked at Leah and mused, "It's ironic… some would say sacrilegious, that the SLA should have a cell functioning within the Jerusalem Temple Area, just a short distance from the famous Wailing Wall. On the other hand, the Moslem Dome of the Rock is also close by. I suppose that sort of evens things out." I lit one of my gold-tipped cigarettes. "Actually, the Wall and the Rock are only symbols, symbols that reach their highest state of power in struggles between good and bad principles of social orders personified in heroes and villains, gods and devils, allies and enemies, and the like. Your Wailing Wall is a good example of symbolism. A million Jews would go out and gladly die to protect that wall, the most precious of all their symbology."
Leah's laugh was low and amused. "You're right. Nick. But don't say 'your wall. I'm an atheist. But to those who believe, it's the Wailing Wall, more than anything else, that convinces them that they're living in the City of God. Yes, the Wall is a symbol. Yet no monument has ever given a people such a collective strength."
The driver of the car turned his head sideways and said in a voice tense with emotion, "It's because of the Wall that we Jews in Israel are able to say, 'We are surrounded by millions of Arabs, but we have no fear. »
I didn't comment. If the man wanted to believe in a wall of stones that was his business. As far as I was concerned it had been U.S. military aid that so far had saved tiny Israel, not a pile of ancient rocks that, supposedly, had once been part of Solomon's Temple.
The House of Medals popped up in my mind again. If and when the shooting started, the Shin Bet would make a two-pronged attack on the building, coming in and rushing both the front and back entrances. The trap would be closed, hopefully, on at least one SLA agent. With some forceful persuasion, he or she might provide some clue to the location of SLA headquarters in Syria. If we got really lucky, the captured agent might even have some information about the LNG plot.
The driver called back, "I'm going to have to park up ahead. The streets are getting too narrow. I'm as close as I can get to the Holy Sepulchre."
Leah checked her large shopping bag resting on the floor of the car. In the bag, underneath a few dummy packages, was an Israeli-made UZI 9mm submachine gun.
I checked to make sure Wilhelmina was resting securely in her shoulder holster, then held up my right arm and looked down my sleeve. Hugo was secure in his chamois case: a flick of my wrist and the stiletto would slide into my hand, handle first.
I took another long drag from the cigarette and flipped it out of the window.
"The way you smoke!" Leah chided. "Don't you believe the warning of your own Surgeon General?"
"You have it backwards," I said. "The tobacco industry has determined that it's the Surgeon General who's dangerous to the health of smokers. Are you ready?"
* * *
Five minutes later, Leah and I were walking along on the ancient stones of St. Francis Way, or rather, we were hobbling as though slowed by the passage of years. While Leah held onto my elbow, I walked with the aid of an old-fashioned hickory cane with a curved handle.
We were ignored by the people brushing past us — tourists from a dozen nations and Arabs wearing the kqffiyeh, the white headdress bound with black ropes. But some Arabs were dressed in Western business suits or wearing shirts and slacks; others wore the traditional burnoose, a hooded mantle or cloak. The clothing of the Arab women was equally as diversified, the older women traditionally veiled, the young ones in Western blouses and skirts.
It was easy to spot an Israeli. The men were wearing white shirts, open at the neck. The national costume of Israel, I thought. At least for men. A necktie salesman would starve to death in this small nation. In contrast, the Orthodox Jews wore a long dark tunic, or caftan, and the broad-brimmed hat called a streimel.
"It's difficult to believe that many of the older people passing us survived Hitler's death camps and the Judengasse," Leah said. "1 believe that was the German name for ghetto.
"You would, if you were Jewish," Leah said. Anyhow, it was Pope Paul IV who established the first Roman ghetto for Jews. But it was the Moslems who pointed the way for the earliest forced segregation — which doesn't have anything to do with why we're here, does it?"
Leah laughed as if enjoying some secret joke, and I looked at her with a puzzled expression on my wrinkled face.
"I'm sorry, Nick," she said. "I was only laughing at fate. A few months ago if someone had told me that I'd be in Jerusalem disguised as an old woman and walking down St. Francis Way with the famous Nick Carter, I would have said impossible. But here I am! Here we are!" Leah sighed. "I suppose it's all relative. There's a saying in the Talmud that a baby comes into the world wanting everything, its fist clenched, while a man leaves the world wanting nothing, his hands open. All Israel wants is peace."
I wasn't in the mood for philosophy. "Let's make certain that we don't go into eternity ten minutes from now, with our hands open and our eyes closed," I warned. "We're almost to the shop."
"Suppose none of the clerks speak English?" Leah asked.
"One of them should, with all the tourist trade they get," I said.
"But suppose they don't?"
"Then we'll have to speak in Arabic."
"But won't it seem suspicious for a tourist from the West to speak Arabic?"
"Should it come to that we'll have to risk it." I shrugged. "Mental telepathy is out of my line."
"Well, no matter what," Leah whispered and gave my arm a little squeeze. "I'm with you all the way."
The front of the House of Medals was made of stone, and, like tourists everywhere, Leah and I looked at the items displayed in the small, glassed-in window, articles of Roman Catholicism. There were medals and medallions; statues of Christ and His Mother; of the Apostles; of the various saints. There were beautiful lithographed prints; candles of various sizes and shapes; crucifixes and tiny bottles of holy water; round vials containing soil from the Mount of Olives.
I leaned heavily on the cane and whispered, "Listen. Don't take any chances. You move when I move, understand?"
Leah nodded, and we went into the shop, passing a young couple on their way out.
A sullen-faced young man, who was wearing a clerk's white coat and whose head was shaved, was behind one counter. An older man, also an Arab and also wearing a white coat, sat on a high stool behind the opposite counter. At the rear of the long room, a pinched-faced woman was arranging brass candlesticks on shelves. The woman, in her forties and reminding me of a spinster from some Victorian novel, glanced up as Leah and I walked in, then returned to her work.
Only a few years older than Leah, which made him about 26 or 27, the dour-faced clerk was brusque to the point of rudeness.
"You will have to please hurry," he said in heavily accented English. "We are about ready to close for the day."
I had begun to analyze the setup from the moment I had walked into the place, and already had put together a plan. Close to where the woman was working in the rear, a heavy curtain hung in a large arched doorway. Quite obviously the archway was the entrance to a back room, or to a hallway that led to a back room or a series of rooms.
The clerk was impatient. "Did you hear me, old man?" he said crossly. "We are getting ready to close. You buy now or go."
With pseudo timidity, I stepped up to the counter and cackled, "Me and my Missus here, we're interested in a statue of St. Joseph. Like the kind on the shelf there."
With the tip of my cane, I pointed to a foot-high statue on the shelf behind the clerk, who then turned, picked up the statue and placed it on the marble-topped counter.
I turned to Leah who was playing her part perfectly. "Is this the one you wanted, dear?" I asked.
Leah smiled, nodded and patted my arm.
"One Israeli pound," the clerk said in a bored voice.
I picked up the plaster-of-Paris statue and pretended to study it, turning slightly, my movement giving me an opportunity to glance in the direction of the other Arab who was behind the opposite counter. Short, heavyset and cruel-looking, the man had gotten off the stool and was leaning against the shelves, his thick arms folded across his chest. He kept looking in my direction. The more he stared, the less I liked him.
I turned to Leah, looked directly into her eyes and silently told her, This is it, baby!
But I said in the voice of a senior citizen, "Check your souvenirs, dear. We'll put the statue in the bag."
Nodding, Leah bent down and began to fumble with the dummy packages in the canvas shopping bag, glancing up at me every now and then.
I returned my attention to the clerk and smiled. "Very well, young man. It's a fine statue. Guess we'll take it. You needn't wrap it."
"One pound," the clerk said, more sullen than ever.
Nonchalantly, as though reaching for my billfold, I slid my right hand inside my coat, and then went into action. It was now or never! I jerked my hand out from underneath my coat, only now it contained a fistful of Luger. Before the young SLA clerk could put together what was happening, I slammed the barrel against his right temple, knocking him out before he had time to open his mouth. The SLA agent slid to the floor just as I jumped to one side and shoved Leah out of the way. My quick movement saved our lives because the SLA member behind the other counter was extremely fast. I had figured he would be. I could tell by the quick, darting movement of his eyes.
The heavyset man jerked a Soviet 9-millimeter Stechkin machine pistol from underneath the counter and triggered off a stream of fire toward where Leah and I had been standing only seconds before. The line of hot 9mm projectiles stabbed across the room, missed us, but found a resting place behind the counter, shattering a row of St. Joseph statues and a row of Madonna figurines into flying chips of plaster.
In the rear of the shop, the prune-faced woman screamed in Arabic, "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" to whoever was in the back section of the shop. Then she reached into an urn and jerked out another Stechkin machine pistol. But I knew that my sudden action had taken her completely by surprise because she reacted more slowly than the terrorist behind the counter.
The Arab woman was swinging the machine pistol toward me and Leah when Wilhelmina roared, her 9mm 110 grain bullet catching the heavyset SLA man just above the bridge of the nose and knocking him backward against the shelves. With a round hole in its lower forehead, the corpse sank to the floor, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
Leah had surprised me. She had been as quick as a bolt of lightning. During those few blinks of time, she had jerked the UZI submachine gun from the shopping bag and had triggered off a short burst of 9 mm slugs that hit the elderly woman squarely in the chest. The blast of hot copper-gilded lead slammed the woman backward through the heavy red curtain that divided the shop from the back room. Practically torn apart by the UZI slugs, the corpse of the Arab woman crumpled to the floor, the curtain half-wrapped around her like a flowing shroud.
In a low crouch, I whispered fiercely to Leah, "Get down behind the counter to the right. I'll take the left side and we'll work our way toward the back. Stay down until I make my move."
Her face grim, Leah nodded, then jumped behind the counter. I leaped over the top of the counter to the left and began to crawl toward the rear of the shop, the pungent odor of burnt cordite stinging my nostrils.
The young Arab I had knocked out with Wilhelmina lay like a log, a long bloody gash on his temple. I hoped I hadn't killed him. Just to make sure, I felt for his pulse. Good. He was still alive. Whatever information the man possessed, Hamosad interrogators would pull it out of him.
Leah and I were still not out of the woods. I reached the end of the counter and cautiously poked out my head. Six feet away, to my right, was the arched entrance to the rear of the shop. The dead Arab woman was lying on her back, torrents of blood pouring from her chest, flowing down to the floor. A Stechkin machine pistol lay next to her.
I decided to rush the back room and motioned for Leah to fire a round at the top of the archway. That would prevent its occupants, if any, from possibly escaping by the front; if they took a rear route, the Shin Bet would grab them. Leah nodded, then pointed the stubby barrel of the UZI upward. At the same time, we heard shrill police whistles from outside the shop. The Shin Bet was getting ready to rush the House of Medals.
With Wilhelmina ready in my hand and a prayer in my pocket. I tensed myself and gave Leah the go-ahead sign. She triggered the UZI, the short burst of 9 mm slugs stabbing into the back room, a foot or so below the arched entrance.
Now that the curtain was down. I could see that beyond the wide archway was a small open area, empty except for an ordinary wooden chair against the right wall. Ahead, six feet from the chair, was another arched doorway, this one narrow and covered with a green curtain.
I didn't like the setup; yet there was no other way to do it. I first put six of Wilhelmina's bullets through the green curtain. Then I put a fresh clip into the Luger, cocked the old girl, leaped up and zigzagged into the small area, throwing myself against the wall next to the chair.
With Wilhelmina all set to fire, I picked up the chair to my left, crept forward along the wall and then tossed the chair through the doorway, its momentum tearing off the green curtain. I dove into the room, right behind the chair, at the same instant that a man fired a couple of Military Mauser slugs at the chair, the 7.63mm bullets ripping through the seat.
I threw myself to one side, my eyes making an instant survey of what appeared to be a storage room. There were two SLA gunmen in the room, the one with the Spanish-type Mauser dressed in burnoose and kaffiyeh, the second man wearing a gaudily colored sports shirt and yellow pants.
The Arab dressed in Western clothes was sitting on a packing crate, his Finger furiously working a Cytex code key. On top of the crate was a shortwave set. But the man stopped clicking the key and reached for a pistol when he saw me.
In that half a second, the Arab who had hit the chair, spun around and fired as I ducked to one side. The bullet sizzled a foot to my left and slammed into a crate standing against the wall. The blob of copper-coated lead must have hit a nailhead because it ricocheted with a screaming whine, stabbed across the room and buried itself in the opposite wall.
I dodged once more and twice pulled the Luger's trigger. The Arab in burnoose and kaffiyeh jumped and jerked, an expression of shock freezing on his dark face. A small dark hole appeared in the center of his chest; the SLA terrorist was dead before he crashed to the floor.
Worried about the man dressed in Western clothes by the code key — he still hadn't fired — I started to drop flat, firing at him by sheer instinct. Frantically he snapped off a shot with an Italian Glisenti automatic. The bullet burned high through the left side of my suit coat, tore through my shirt and left a graze on the skin of my left shoulder, a momentary streak of agony that interfered with my own aim. Instead of Wilhelmina's 9mm hitting the Arab in the chest, it plowed into his mouth, moved upward at an angle and tore off the top of his skull. The Glisenti automatic fell from his dead fingers and he dropped to the floor, the corpse sitting down flat, leaning against a packing case, the mouth cavern-like in a silent scream.
I jumped to my feet and listened to the terrible silence. Silence? Not quite a full and complete silence. There was another sound, a familiar one that made me shiver. It was a loud ticking, similar to the ticking of an alarm clock, and it could mean only one thing: the SLA fanatics had booby-trapped the place. I could think of only one question: How soon before the big bang?
I ran to the doorway and yelled, "I've cleaned them out back here. But stay back. They've triggered a time bomb. I've got to find it and do a disconnect."
Personally, I had a lot of respect for the Syrian Liberation Army members. Even in the midst of dying they still had been able to contact their main base — I assumed that was what the Arab at the short wave had been doing — and put a destruct device into operation. Dedicated men and women like that are always extremely dangerous. People willing to die for a cause must always be handled with extreme caution.
With my heart pounding, I began a frantic search for the source of the loud ticking, of the timing-detonator that was connected to explosives. I wondered what kind and how much.
The ticking led me to the detonator which had been placed behind the shortwave set. The timer-detonator was of the KLX type and had an hour's maximum running time. I held up the timer and stared at the dial. Only four minutes were left. And there wasn't any way I could reverse the timer knob of the KLX device. My only choice was to yank out the wires. But suppose the timer had a feedback circuit? If it did, I would never know it. The instant I pulled the wires, the back-feed spark would automatically detonate the explosive.
I jerked the four wires from the timing device and prayed. There was no explosion. My head remained on my neck. I still had my two arms and two legs.
The ticking stopped.
Perspiration pouring down my face, I quickly began to trace the wires that had been connected to the timer. They curled across the top of the packing case, ran over its edge and down to a two-foot square box on the floor. Judging from the red markings on the box, there must have been fifty to sixty pounds of nitrocellulose in the small crate, more than enough explosive to blow up the building. In fact, more than enough to blow up half the block!
I jerked the four wires from the box and heaved a sigh of relief as Leah and half a dozen Shin Bet security men came into the room.
"Thank God you're all right," Leah breathed, resting her dark head against my chest. "You look like you've been through hell."
"I'll settle for purgatory," I replied, then patted her hair and looked at the young, clean-cut Israeli with a square chin and thick eyebrows. From the way he acted, I assumed he was in command of the Shin Bet raiding party.
"There's a crate of explosives over there," I said, looking at him. "You'd better have your boys get it out of here."
Nodding, the Shin Bet officer motioned to a couple of his men and they moved toward the box of nitrocellulose.
"You should have waited for us, Mr. Heines, or whatever your name is!" the Shin Bet officer said angrily. "If you hadn't rushed the situation, we might have taken more of the scum alive. Mr. Ben-Zvi won't be pleased when I make my report about your hasty activities."
"In that case, Mr. Ben-Zvi will have to be sad." I said calmly. "If I hadn't charged the back room, you wouldn't have captured any of the SLA alive. They had the entire place set to blow up with at least fifty pounds of plastic stuff. There was precious little time left when I disconnected the timer. Be sure to put that in your report to Mr. Ben-Zvi."
A stunned look flashed over the face of the Shin Bet officer.
"I see, he said stiffly and hooked his thumbs over his belt.
I shoved Wilhelmina back into her shoulder holster and took Leah by the arm. "Let's go see what's happening out front."
Leah and I left the room, walked across the small open space and paused at the back of the long shop. The Shin Bet officer followed us but said nothing as we watched two of his men carrying out the corpse of the SLA woman on a stretcher. Two other Shin Bet agents were holding the arms of the young clerk whom I had knocked out. He was still dazed, and his hands were handcuffed behind his back.
The Shin Bet officer in charge began to talk to Leah in Hebrew. He talked just as much with his hands, moving them all over the place, and I got the impression that if someone tied his hands, he wouldn't have been able to recite his own name.
Finally, Leah turned to me and said, "Captain Stein wants us to ride back to Tel Aviv with him."
"I heard him perfectly," I growled, cutting her short and glaring at Stein. "Captain, our driver is waiting only two blocks away, and we're going to return to Tel Aviv with him. Hamosad can contact us in the usual manner. Shalom."
I turned to go. Stein placed a hand lightly on my arm. "But you two can't return to your hotel looking as you do!" he protested.
I brushed aside Stein's hand and took Leah by an elbow.
"We don't intend to return to the Samuel looking like this. We're first going to the safe house on Derech Hagevura to get rid of this makeup and change into regular clothes."
I didn't wait for Stein to reply. I steered Leah to the back door of the House of Medals. Once we were in the alley and past a dozen Shin Bet guards, I said to Leah, "You did a fine job back there. You acted like a professional."
"But you didn't think I would, did you?" Smoking a cigarette, she regarded me with cool eyes. She tilted her chin but there was no resentment in her words.
I felt I owed her the truth. "I was wrong about you and I'm sorry. You were terrific."
I could tell by the flicker of surprise in her eyes and by the way she smiled that she hadn't expected an apology from me.
"Perhaps you'll be able to think of some nice way to make it up to me after we return to the hotel," she said throatily.
"I already have," I said.
Chapter Three
Both Leah and I felt much better after the layers of makeup had been removed from our faces and hands and after we had changed into more comfortable clothes. Our mood changed to intense curiosity when we returned to our suite in the Samuel and found David Hawk and Jacob Ben-Zvi waiting for us. Hawk skirting on a sofa, Ben-Zvi on a cushioned chair. As usual, Hawk was smoking a cigar that smelted like a by-product of an experiment in gas warfare.
The two men only nodded as Leah and I looked at them in surprise. Leah sat down next to Hawk on the sofa and I ambled over to the small bar, knowing why the two Intelligence chiefs had come to us: because Leah and I didn't dare be seen going to Hamosad headquarters. The question was why were they here in the first place, especially Hawk. As the chief of the United States Special Espionage Agency, he wasn't in the habit of going out into the field. Something damned important had to be in the wind.
"The operation of the House of Medals was a success," Ben-Zvi said in a low voice. "The two of you are to be congratulated, especially you, Carter, since you originated the basic plan. Good work."
"I try," I said, glancing across the room at the Hamosad chief as I poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass. He was a short, stocky man with a square, blunt head topped with an enormous mass of gray-white hair. He had deep creases from his nose to his mouth, which turned heavily downward. His eyebrows were very busy, his hands bony and his skin burnt brown-tough from the hot Israeli sun. He was either in his late forties or early fifties.
"Nick is one of our best agents," Hawk said, then turned his shaggy head to Leah. "And Mr. Ben-Zvi has been telling me of your resourcefulness and daring. You are a very brave young woman, my dear."
Leah smiled and said, "Thank you, sir." I dropped several ice cubes into the glass, put down the tongs and leaned over on the bar, watching Hawk. Several years past sixty, he was a solid chunk of a man who, in spite of his advanced years, still had the strength of a bull. If he was ten or fifteen years younger, I wouldn't want to tangle with him.
Hawk gave me one of his hard looks. "If you keep wondering why I'm here in Israel, you're going to throw your brain out of gear," he growled. "I'm here to make sure our intelligence about the SLA dovetails with what the Hamosad has learned about the terrorist organization. The situation is worse than we thought previously."
For a moment I stared at Hawk, then took a swallow of brandy. Leah and Ben-Zvi remained silent. I could detect that they had that sharp sense of here and now — a keen awareness of the moment, a feeling of excitement and at the same time of dread.
"So what's the new development?" I looked directly at Hawk and put the glass on the bar.
"It's the overall seriousness of the SLA plot that poses such an extreme threat," Hawk said gruffly. He leaned forward and tapped his cigar into an ashtray on the low cocktail table. "We still don't know how the bombs are to be planted on board the supertanker, or the names of the terrorists assigned to do the job. We don't even know the name of the tanker." He chomped down on his cigar and spoke around it. "There are more than a hundred liquified natural gas installations in the world and eighty of them are in the U. S. Carter, you've been in this business long enough to know the other factors involved."
"Yeah, the SLA could have deliberately used disinformation," I said. "They could be planning to blow up a supertanker in some harbor other than in New York City." I picked up the brandy and swirled the ice cubes in the glass. "For that matter, the whole deal might be a cover-up for some other plot. As I see it, we're going to have to capture the top leaders to get the real truth."
Leah spoke up. "Let's hope the SLA member we captured will give us a solid lead. We must find Mohammed Karameh."
"The terrorist is being questioned at this very moment," Ben-Zvi said grimly. "We have our ways of getting the truth from even the most stubborn of fanatics." Folding his hands, he squeezed one set of knuckles, then the other. "But frankly, I doubt if he can tell us anything of vital importance. He's only a lower echelon member."
"Surely he must have some important information!" Leah protested, brushing a strand of raven hair from her forehead. "Otherwise we're right back where we started."
"Not quite," Hawk countered, only he looked at me as he spoke. He continued to hold me with his stare as he said, "For the last four months, AXE has had two Syrian nationals working for us in Damascus. A brother and sister team, who are members of the SLA, but who are also supplying us with important information — for a heavy price, of course. In fact, it was Ahmed Kamel and his sister, Miriam, who tipped us off to the supertanker plot."
Leah looked surprised, and I figured her thoughts were similar to mine. If the two Syrians knew so damn much, why didn't they know the location of SLA headquarters? I was angry as hell but kept a straight face out of respect for Hawk and because I knew a display of anger wouldn't have helped. The Second Coming of Christ wouldn't have fazed Hawk. I had a more diplomatic way of letting him know I didn't like being used.
"Sir, if Ahmed Kamel and his sister knew about the LNG scheme, why didn't we obtain the location of SLA headquarters from them."
"We didn't, because the Kamels didn't know the location of the main SLA base," Hawk said, taking the stub of the cigar from his mouth. "They weren't trusted members of the SLA — trusted to the extent that they knew the SLA's main base — until a week ago."
I finished my drink, put down the empty glass and looked at Hawk.
"You're saying that you and Mr. Ben-Zvi now know the location?"
Hawk nodded. "The Kamels managed to get word to us through a Control Officer in Damascus."
I glared at Jacob Ben-Zvi. "Yet you still let me and Miss Weizmann risk our necks in the House of Medals! Thanks a lot!"
Ben-Zvi's face contorted into a puzzled half-smile. "There wasn't any valid reason to call off the strike against the House of Medals," he said, gesticulating with one bony hand. "The place was scheduled to be raided. Your plan was the best, N3."
Hawk reached into the inside pocket of his rumpled coat and took out another cigar. "Actually we didn't get the message from the Kamels until yesterday afternoon. There was a fatherly tone to his voice. "Their report was on a need-to-know basis. You understand that."
I grinned crookedly at Hawk. "And now that I do know, I suppose the next thing you're going to tell me is that I've got to skip over to Damascus and check out Ahmed and Miriam Kamel?"
"That's only half of your assignment," Hawk said matter-of-factly, removing the wrapper from the cigar. "The second half is more complicated. Ahmed Kamel will lead you to within sight of Karameh's headquarters. You'll get the exact coordinates of the base's location, then get the hell out of Syria and back to Tel Aviv.
"We Israelis will do the rest," Ben-Zvi said passionately. "We'll bomb the base off the face of the earth."
I looked at Hawk. "Sir, I was under the impression that the Kamels had given you and the Hamosad the location of the SLA base! Besides, they're both double agents. How do you know they're telling the truth; unless, of course, their love of money is greater than their revolutionary fervor."
"It is," Hawk said and shoved the cigar into his mouth. "It was they who tipped us off to the House of Medals. Yeah, there's a possibility that the whole thing's a setup, but I don't think so. We'll have to chance it."
"What about SLA headquarters?" I asked.
"Karameh's main base is on the As-Suwayda hills of southeastern Syria," Hawk explained. "You have to go in because the Kamels don't know a thing about cartography. They can't pinpoint the exact location."
Ben-Zvi added, "You won't slip into Syria until after we've questioned the terrorist that you and Leah captured. He might have some information that will have a bearing on your mission."
"Which means I'll leave sometime tomorrow morning," I said.
"Before dawn," Ben-Zvi said flatly.
My eyes jumped to Hawk, then to Ben-Zvi. I didn't like the deal. I never have trusted double agents. And suicide has never appealed to me.
Chapter Four
Leah and I had planned to go out that night and celebrate along Tel Aviv's Dizengoff, a street of crowded sidewalk cafes and juice bars. Hawk and Ben-Zvi's visit changed all that. In the first place, neither Leah nor I were in the mood. In the second place, at midnight the Israelis were going to fly me to Tiberias, an ancient city on the western shores of the Sea of Galilee.
Ben-Zvi had given me a brief rundown on how I would slip into Syria. Two agents, one an Israeli, the other a Syrian, would take me across the Sea of Galilee and the Golan Heights. After that I'd be on my own.
We had dinner sent up to our suite and discussed the situation as we ate. Not one to minimize the danger, Leah quietly pointed out that if I were captured by the Syrian authorities, I would be given a quick trial and hanged as a spy.
I paused in cutting my T-bone and gave Leah a reproving look.
"Tell me something I don't know," I said. "Naturally the Syrians would stretch my neck. They love you Israelis like the Kremlin loves the Vatican. I'm not concerned as much about the Syrian police as I am about Ahmed and Miriam Kamel. I'm going into Syria like a doomed sinner and my only salvation is a couple of Arabs I trust like the plague."
Leah dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, then said, "So far the Kamels have proved trustworthy. After all, they did tip Hamosad to the SLA cell operating out of the House of Medals."
"Which doesn't prove a damn thing." I said. "The Syrian Liberation Army is ten times more kill-crazy than the PLO and Black September combined. Karameh and his top boys wouldn't think twice about sacrificing their own people to accomplish some particular end."
"You mean if the Kamels are lying to AXE and to Hamosad?" Leah gave me a puzzled look. "But what could the SLA hope to accomplish?"
I sighed, picked up a glass of wine and stared thoughtfully into the red depths. "Suppose the SLA wanted you Israelis to bomb a fake base? To do that, the Kamels would have to lead me to within sight of a phony camp. That's one possibility."
"But not very probable in my opinion."
Finishing the wine, I placed the glass on the table and pushed back my chair. "Another possibility is that Syria might want to start a war with Israel, using the Israeli bombing of the fake base as an excuse. But I don't think so. The Syrians aren't quite that stupid. Even if they were, the Russians wouldn't let them."
Leah smiled at me, got up from the table and we went over to the couch and sat down. It was only 7:30 and there was still plenty of time to say our intimate goodbyes.
She leaned back on the couch, her eyes flashing more provocatively than usual. "I thought you were going to make something up to me," she said softly. "Or have you forgotten?" Before I could answer, her arms instinctively reached around my neck, her heart pounding with such ferocity that I could see her skin quivering above it.
As we kissed, Leah felt my excitement grow and whispered, "The bedroom will be more comfortable."
Leah slipped out of her clothes as we walked across the room. She stretched across the bed languidly and watched me undress, her eyes half-closed. Before I could finish, her hands folded around the nape of my neck, and she pulled me down on top of herself.
The love-act with Leah was an ever-increasing sensation of endless pleasure. Her breasts, her slim waist, her well-formed thighs, the ecstatic expression her beautiful face all combined into a succession of thrills, making me want to caress them all at the same time. Successively, I managed to do them all justice, sending her into heights of rapture. She began shrieking and gasping, and then she began to moan. Her arms clasped me tight with iron determination; her powerful thighs closed around me, and I felt her tightening in that lubricous haven to which I constantly strove with all my might. I felt an irresistible impulse to propel myself forward, and covered her with a last, ultimate advance that left no particle of air between us.
Odd, I thought. Tonight I was in heaven.
Tomorrow I'd be in Syria — in hell…
Chapter Five
Although Damascus is said to be the oldest continually inhabited city in the world, it does not look old. Modern apartment and office buildings rise on either side of broad landscaped boulevards while the residential area is laid out with small green squares and broad lawns. Flower gardens surround attractive villas.
This was not my first visit to Damascus, so I knew that the most beautiful view of the city was at sunset from the Salihiya Hill, a ten minute drive from the center of the city. Below the hill lies Damascus, the Barada River fanning out into seven branches, traced by poplar trees which line their banks and by the nearby green of the gardens. Damascus' shining white houses and its many domed mosques are encircled by green parks and fruit groves which end abruptly at the desert's edge. Tall, slim minarets push skyward and, as the sun drops below the horizon and the sky reddens, muezzins appear everywhere on the balconies of these minarets, summoning people to evening prayer with the unforgettable call, "Allah el Akbar" — "God is great, God is great, there is no God but God."
But I wasn't the least bit interested in the sights of Damascus. I was too concerned with making my way to the shop of Ahmed Kamel. I glanced at my wristwatch: 3:35 in the afternoon. I had made good time and hadn't encountered any difficulty.
Walking in the old section of the city, I thought of how everything had gone as planned. The two Hamosad agents and I had crossed the Sea of Galilee; then they led me across the highly dangerous Golan Heights, that strip of land that is occupied by the Israelis. Once across the Heights, I had been met by another agent, a Syrian Jew who drove me in his vegetable truck to the little village of El Ruad, an uncomfortable trip, since I had been in the back surrounded on all sides by crates of tomatoes and grapes. Much later in the day, when the roads were thick with traffic, another Syrian Jew had driven me the rest of the distance to Damascus, some seventy miles. I had left the back of the truck while the vehicle was parked not far from the enormous Kaddha market.
Only once had I been stopped by one of the Fazets, a member of the regular police. Seeing that I was not Syrian, the man, speaking broken English, had asked to see my identification.
"Certainly," I had replied in Arabic, immediately producing my forged, English passport in the name Joseph Allen Galloway. Along with the passport I handed him the forged Syrian visa, all properly stamped, all so authentic looking I almost believed it myself. Just in case, I had forged ticket stubs to prove that I had entered Syria the morning of that very day, arriving on the Josi-Dan Express, a train that runs from Amman, Jordan, to Damascus, Syria.
Pleased that I could speak Arabic, the man smiled. "You are in Syria as a tourist, Mr. Galloway?" he had asked politely, handing me my passport and visa. "Or on business."
"On business." I had replied promptly. "I'm an importer in London. I've come to Syria to buy rugs and brass and copper items. 1 I had then added another big lie. "This is my tenth trip to your marvelous country."
My only real concern was that the policeman might search me, in which case he would find Wilhelmina in her shoulder holster and Hugo nestled against my right arm.
The policeman had smiled, had wished me a pleasant stay in Syria and had gone on his way. I had continued on mine, thinking that if worse came to worst, that if the Syrian secret police grabbed me by some fluke, I'd «confess» to being a member of the Irish Republican Army, and say that I had come to Syria to learn methods of terrorism from the SLA. It was no secret in the world intelligence community that the IRA had links to all the larger Arab terrorists groups, Al Fatah, Black September, the P.L.O. and the SLA. Whether or not the Syrians would have believed me was another matter. If they did, they would release me. Not that the Syrians loved the IRA. But Damascus hated Israel and the SLA was doing all in its power to bring down the Israelis. Conclusion: any friends of the SLA were looked upon with favor.
I was now approaching the Hamidiyyah Bazaar, the famous "Long Market" which extends for almost a mile. All around me were people from various nations — mostly tourists, although many were Arabs. Motor vehicles threaded their way through the dense crowds, their horns perpetually sounding but gaining little attention from the bargaining masses. Other than the main road, the entire bazaar was a veritable warren of crisscrossing lanes and winding streets. White-bearded, turbaned men with faces like patriarchs of the Bible sat cross-legged in front of their shops, selling calico and stripped gallibiyea cloth from bolts neatly stacked on shelves behind them. Other shops sold handmade artifacts such as inlaid chests, engraved copper wares, ceramics and embroideries.
I forced my way through the throng, now and then asking directions, until I finally saw the long sign: FINE RUGS. ENGRAVED BRASS, BRONZE & COPPER. AHMED KAMEL. PROPRIETOR.
Constantly on the lookout for the darting hand of a pickpocket, I pushed and shoved until I reached the entrance of the shop, which was larger than most, indicating that Ahmed Kamel and his sister did a thriving business.
Inside there were numerous customers milling around and four clerks, two men and two women. Ahmed Kamel was not among them. I was positive because, before I left Tel Aviv, the Hamosad had shown me photographs of Kamel and his sister. But one of the women clerks was Miriam Kamel, who, at the moment, was waiting on a tourist couple. In spite of the fact that I might be walking into a cleverly set trap. I couldn't help but have erotic thoughts about her, all generated by 'the tight, black dress which showed her figure to its best advantage.
Following Hawk's instructions, I walked up to the counter and handed her my forged Joseph Allen Galloway. Importer business card. She looked at it, for a moment then her dark eyes swept over me, appraising me calmly.
"I should like to see Mr. Kamel," I said in Arabic, trying not to stare at her breasts.
"One moment, Mr. Galloway." Giving me a quick smile, she went across the wide room and whispered something to one of the male clerks. Nodding, the hawk-faced man glanced at me, and I wondered if the woman had instructed him to call the police. If she had, she'd be the first to get one of Wilhelmina's 9 mm hollow points. But the clerk only turned to a customer while Miriam walked back to me.
"Follow me. Mr. Galloway," she said with a slight smile. She turned and moved toward a curtained archway at one end of the room. Undressing her with my eyes, I followed, well aware that if I had walked into a trap, I was doing it with all of the helplessness of a lamb being led to slaughter.
Beyond the archway was a short hall and three closed doors, one on either side and one at the end of the passage. Miriam chose the door to our right, and after we entered, I saw that we were in a sitting room. There were several fancy cushioned chairs, and an intricately carved teak table was centered between two blue sofas.
I sat down in the center of one sofa. Miriam positioned herself opposite me and crossed her long legs, her dark eyes measuring me intently. I played it cool, deliberately refraining from mentioning her brother. For a moment there was silence, except for the faint sound coming from the air-conditioning duct in one corner of the room.
"We can talk freely here; no one will hear us," she said at length. "I told the chief clerk that you were an importer from England and to see that no one disturbed us. Unfortunately, my brother is not available. He's in the hospital with a case of stomach ulcers."
I stared at her, letting my intuition have a free hand and watching how she was moving her left foot in little circles.
"Does your brother's illness change any part of the plan?" I asked.
"I can lead you to the SLA base in the As-Suwayda hills. Ahmed's being in the hospital does not pose any problems in regard to your mission. Would you like a drink?" she added, her voice sultry.
She didn't wait for me to answer. A teasing smile playing around the edges of her mouth, she got up, went across the room and stopped by a small table. She pressed a button in the wall, and slowly the bar moved forward from its hidden compartment. Seeing my surprise, she explained that she and her brother had many Western friends who drank and that many of their Moslem friends did, in spite of the Moslem prohibition against alcohol.
I looked at the bar. "Well stocked, I see." I deliberately moved closer to her, inhaling her faint perfume and eyeing the thrust of her nipples against the thin material of her dress. I pulled out a pack of Syrian Triangle cigarettes as she put her lush behind on a stool, indicated the other side of the bar with a hand and gave a tiny laugh, her upper lip rising to show the tip of small, evenly shaped teeth.
"Help yourself," she said. She looked at me as I moved behind the bar. "Nothing for me. I don't drink, not only because of my religion but because I consider drinking a weakness."
I lit the Triangle, vaguely wishing I could have had my own monogrammed brand which I had imported from Turkey.
"I'll buy that," I said, placing a fifth of Scotch on the bar. "Booze is almost as bad as smoking. Cigarettes killed my grandfather. He died at ninety-six." I poured a generous slug of scotch into a glass, then reached for the ice cubes in the West German-made ice maker underneath the bar.
"You don't seem to be concerned about getting to within sight of Karameh's main base," she said. "Or could it be that you're only being polite and really think that I can't do the job?"
"You said you could do it," I shrugged. "I assume that you can. I am interested in how dangerous the journey will be and what method of travel we'll use. I certainly don't look like an Arab and I can't see myself bouncing up and down on a camel."
Miriam laughed. "Transportation is not a problem. You see, I have an American van. I believe the make is a Dodge. It was once used as a laundry delivery van. It will be very comfortable."
"A van," I repeated. "What some Americans refer to as a sin-bin, and yet you say we'll be comfortable in it!"
Miriam looked at me in astonishment.
"I suppose I didn't make myself clear," I said, laughing. "Actually I meant the heat. We'll roast in a van."
"No, we won't," Miriam said. "My brother had the van completely renovated. It's air-conditioned, and the rear has been turned into living quarters — small but comfortable. The van is also equipped with heavy duty springs and Land Rover tires for rough country travel."
Tired from all the walking I had done, I took my drink, went back to the sofa and said, "How far is it to the As-Suwayda hills, and what kind of country will we be going through?"
Before leaving Israel, I had studied a detailed topography map of Syria and had discussed the entire situation with Hamosad experts; therefore, I knew that the distance from Damascus to the As-Suwayda region was roughly 50 miles. I also knew that, while there was a road part of the way, the last several miles would have to be travelled over very rough terrain. But I wanted to hear Miriam tell me her version. Her information was similar, although she wasn't sure about the distance.
"Much of the way is a well-travelled trade route," she said. "The rest will be over rough country, rocky but not impassable. As for the sand dunes, the true desert is farther to the east." She got up from the sofa, walked across the short space and sat down beside me. "There could be some problems though."
I frowned. "The Syrian Desert Patrol? It was my understanding that the Syrian government more-or-less ignores the SLA!"
"The government soldiers won't bother us," she explained, sliding closer to me. "They know the van. Ahmed is an amateur archeologist and he and I often go out into the desert to poke around old Roman ruins." I saw her face tighten with solemnity. "The trouble might come from bandits, either Syrian or Jordanian bandits. It is difficult for either our own government or the Jordan government to control the Bedouin scavengers. We'll have automatic weapons, but we'll have to be constantly on guard, especially after we leave the trade route. We can leave tomorrow morning, unless there is some reason why we shouldn't."
"What kind of automatic weapons?"
She looked at me in annoyance, as if I had asked a dirty question.
"An AK-47 assault rifle and a Skorpion machine pistol," she said. "And before I forget — Ahmed obtained the other things you will need for ascertaining the exact location of the camp, although the sextant and the celestial computer were not easy to get. "Her voice softened. "Like I said, we can leave tomorrow morning. Naturally, you will spend the night here."
I began to get ideas that had nothing to do with finding the Syrian Liberation Army base; yet I had to be sure that I had not misread the subtle invitation in her low voice, or that she wasn't just a teaser.
"Yes, with your brother in the hospital, his room is empty," I said with an innocent smile.
"Ahmed would not like a stranger sleeping in his bed, any more than I would want you to sleep on one of these uncomfortable sofas." Her voice was low and tinged with faint mockery.
Watching her smiling at me, her crimson lips curled slightly in amusement, I decided that it was time to make my move. I began to run my hand along her forearm, over skin that was soft, almost like silk. She sighed deeply and began to breathe faster as I moved my hand to her back, my fingers pulling the zipper tab downward. Then my fingers found smooth, cool flesh, while my other hand began pulling the black dress over one shoulder. My lips closed over hers and opened again, and she reached inside my mouth with her tongue. She helped me pull the dress over her other shoulder, and then wriggled out of it completely.
Laying back on the couch, she laced her arms around my head and neck, drawing me close as I moved my face down between her full heaving breasts. I traced the delicate curve of one with my tongue while her fingers fumbled with my belt, unfastening it. She writhed against me and moaned softly, as I slipped out of my pants and shorts. Her eyes were closed as though in some kind of trance, her lovely breasts indicating her increasing passion, rising and falling with greater rapidity, the nipples as hard as stone.
I began to stroke and kiss her eyelids and fine-boned nose, moving my lips, tongue and fingers slowly over her body — down over the bared neck, the heaving breasts, and smooth belly. With deft fingers I probed the wedge-shaped area of curly hair at the meeting of the inside of her thighs.
I carefully edged myself over until I was on top and my legs firmly entrenched between her warm thighs… Both my hands enfolded her body and I lowered my head to hers until my lips met her trembling mouth and she accepted my anxious, darting tongue. Then and only then did I arch forward, pushing the lance full length into her begging orifice. She gave a tiny cry of mingled pain and delight; her arms tightened around my neck, her legs over mine, and carefully I began those vital in-and-out motions. We were both starving for that supreme moment, that final, explosive sensation, and rapidly the pace became more furious.
It was — now! The rapture of our two bodies had merged fire and flame together, so that when it was time for one it was time for the other… pure passion overflowed and swallowed us both in a strange but beautiful exhaustion.
Miriam stared into my eyes and whispered, "We're going to enjoy the trip to the As-Suwayda hills."
Sure we would, I thought. But what about the return trip?
Chapter Six
Dressed in khaki pants, matching shirt, and wearing walker boots, Miriam acted as though we were going on a long camping trip instead of a dangerous mission. As the hours passed and Damascus was far behind us, I tried to decide whether she was very brave, or an important cog in some machine of deceit and treachery. I was positive about one thing: She wasn't a fool. And she certainly wasn't an idealist, unless she was lying to me, but rather a very sensuous woman whose prime motivation was simple greed.
The van was everything she had said it was. In place of sliding bus-type doors on each side, there were regular doors that could be locked on the inside. In the rear were two bunks, one on either side, a built-in stove and a refrigerator, both powered by propane gas. A small metal table was bolted to the center of the floor and there was ample storage space in the wall lockers.
The food locker and refrigerator were well-stocked. I calculated that there was more than enough food for a five or six day journey, which meant that Miriam had packed enough for a return trip. Still, I was suspicious of her. In this business, «trust» is a word used only by fools.
Before we left, I had inspected the compartment where the firearms were stored, checking the Russian AK-47 assault rifle and the Czech machine pistol, relieved that there was plenty of ammo for both weapons, as well as for the two Spanish 9-millimeter automatics and the U. S. Gwinn Bushmaster. I felt like singing God Bless America when I saw the campsite intruder detection system, all neatly packed in its box.
During the night Miriam had told me that she and her brother had joined the Syrian Liberation Army for two reasons: because they hated Jews and "World Zionism," and because they were convinced that the «dispossessed» Palestinians deserved a state of their own. I had then asked her why, in spite of such honest beliefs, she and her brother were working not only for the U. S. Special Espionage Agency but for Hamosad, the worldwide intelligence apparatus of the very nation they hoped to destroy!
Miriam's answer had been prompt and practical — money. "One can't buy the finer things of life with political idealism," she had said, adding that, as she and Ahmed had analyzed the situation, all the Arab terrorist organizations were unrealistic, violent dreamers. Israel would never fall; the United States could not afford to let that happen. There was also Arab disunity, centuries' old hatreds which made it impossible for the Arab nations to work together.
Now, as I drove the van over the concrete road, I decided that maybe Miriam was telling the truth, and maybe she wasn't. I'd have to wait and see.