The Heat of Ramadan, page 29
“Fahmi, you have been a good friend.”
“You paid me well, Mr. Eckhardt.” The Arab had turned in his seat. His eyes watered.
“No, a good friend.” Eytan got out of the car and leaned in the front window. He took Fahmi’s hand. “Ma’asalaama.” He said farewell in Arabic.
“U’a! Be careful!” Fahmi called after him. “Kattar allah kherak!”
Eytan walked straight for the hotel. He did not pause, or hesitate, nor did he bother to check for tails or watchers. His leg hurt like hell but he ignored it. He could feel the cold hilt of the shabriyeh against his belly beneath his untucked shirt. He crossed the great circular drive, where the big cars of diplomats and wealthy Europeans cruised in and out like ocean liners in a brightly lit harbor. Bellhops in ridiculous uniforms whistled and called to taxi drivers, and the local camel shepherd had a woman in a blue cocktail dress giggling as her date photographed her on top of a huge, slobbering ship of the desert.
He neared the steps. They loomed before him like the ladder to a gallows. His heart was hammering a paradiddle in his chest as he lifted his aching leg onto the first stair.
Both of his elbows were suddenly locked in a crushing grip. He turned his head to see three Egyptian plainclothes policemen. One of them flashed a badge while quick hands moved over Eytan’s body. He felt the shabriyeh being jerked from his belt.
“Please, Mr. Eckstein,” a low Arabic accent rumbled, “just come along.”
He did not resist. The detectives escorted him across the drive. A large black car sat there with its rear door open, like a panther waiting to swallow him. He was pushed inside and the door slammed.
The Chief of Security from the embassy sat in the rear seat. Two of his men perched on fold-out stools in the large cabin.
“I think it is time for you to go home, Mr. Eckstein,” said Motti.
The car began to move.
On the steps of the Hilton, Amar Kamil stood casually conversing with a pair of striking Danish women. They tittered as he entertained them with a concocted story about life in the African Congo, replete with British accent and the amusing snobbery of a colonialist.
Yet all the while, as he smoked a Dunhill and smiled at the women, his eyes were watching the lightning-quick capture and removal of ‘Mars.’
He smiled, dropped his cigarette, and crushed it out on the rich carpet of the stairway.
* * *
Eytan arrived at Ben Gurion International Airport at one o’clock in the morning. He had flown unescorted aboard the El Al 707, although the Cairo embassy Chief of Security had told one of the aircraft’s armed guards to keep a close eye on him.
He sat in his seat while most of the passengers hurried to the exit, anxious to see their friends and families and tell of their visits to an Arab land. Eytan was not avoiding the crush; he simply found himself unable to get up. His body rebelled against the inevitable, until a stewardess finally offered to help him and he managed to disembark with a declining shake of his head.
He walked to passport control as if trudging through a swamp, his legs heavy, his arms like carcasses at his side. Except for his flight, there was no other arrival, and the lines moved quickly.
The customs clerk asked him for his passport, which had been returned to him, but he did not have his reserve officer’s travel document, so he had to fill out a form. It took him a long time.
He passed through the control desks and into the baggage claim hall. He stood there for a minute, wondering what to do, where he should go.
The problem was solved for him.
A team of GSS men approached, four gorillas in jeans and summer blazers. One of them showed an ID and cocked his head, indicating that Eytan should follow along. They surrounded him as they would a head of state, leading him past the tourist information desks and the restrooms, past the groups of excited Israelis who were claiming their bags and wondering if they would get caught with their smuggled cameras and VCRs. They skipped the declaration section of customs and went past a uniformed guard, through a side exit, and suddenly they were outside on the sidewalk.
Heinz was standing there. He was in full uniform, his bars and boots polished, his black beret folded beneath an epaulet, his white-blond hair nearly fluorescent, his hands on his hips and his dead eyes glittering.
He stepped forward and made his pronouncement with undisguised pleasure.
“Captain Eytan Eckstein . . . You are under arrest.”
Part Two: Ramadan
10: Jerusalem
Before Dawn
“YOU ARE A SOLDIER, ECKSTEIN!”
Colonel Itzik Ben-Zion’s voice banged off the walls of his office like a medicine ball fired from a cannon.
“A soldier!”
He pounded on his desk top and the pencils and papers bounced as he marched around it like a boa constrictor closing on a rat.
“You’re not some goddamn Mossad executive in a French-cut suit, running around Europe whenever you damn well please. You are a soldier, and you will follow orders, and if you can’t follow orders then you will be subject to the same disciplines of any pathetic private in this fucking army. Is that clear?”
Eytan sat in a metal chair in the middle of the room like a murder suspect at a police interrogation. They had been at it for over an hour. Or rather, Ben-Zion had been at it, for most of the hearing consisted of Itzik’s ranting, interspersed with Eytan’s attempts to explain himself.
Eytan was long past tired. His body felt like a molten, burning liquid that should have been poured into a sewer. His eyes stung and his stomach churned, and his leg made him wish they had opted for amputation.
Yet Ben-Zion’s dressing-down, replete with exaggerations, insults and threats, was far more painful than Eytan’s physical condition. And even more excruciating was the fact that Benni Baum stood there the entire time—saying absolutely nothing.
“I asked you a question, Eckstein.” Itzik was looming over him now, arms folded across his chest, bending at the waist and sticking his nose in Eytan’s face.
“What was the question?” Eytan asked groggily.
“Do you correctly understand your position in this unit?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand your duties and obligations as an army officer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you realize that I could send you down to Prison Six for half a year, for being AWOL?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The Colonel backed away and leaned against his desk. It was well past 3:00 A.M., and outside, Jerusalem was as quiet as a sleepy Scottish sea town. The Special Operations building was also in repose, except for the remote clacking of the telex machines from Communications on Floor Two. “Then I assume you also understand my displeasure.”
“Not really,” Eytan said simply. “Actually, it seems out of proportion.”
“Koos eema shelcha!” Ben-Zion stamped up onto his feet and began to pace again, but this time he turned on Benni, who sat passively on the couch along one wall. “Baum, this is all your fault.”
“Mine?” Baum placed a hand over his chest.
“Yes. Yours.” Itzik stared at Baum as he jabbed a finger in Eckstein’s direction. “This man is insubordinate, conniving and unrepentant.”
Baum suppressed a laugh. “I was his field commander, Itzik, not his father.”
“I’ll take the blame.” Danny Romano stood over near the windows, one foot up on a chair, clicking his teeth on his cold pipe stem. “If that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Romano,” Itzik warned him. “You’re all this close to transfers.” He put a thumb and finger together to show just how close they were.
“You can’t transfer me,” Uri Badash said. The Shabak agent was leaning against a corner wall, smoking. “I don’t work for you.”
The Colonel looked over at the GSS man as if seeing him for the first time. “Remind me, Badash. What are you doing here?”
“You asked for a GSS team to pick him up at the airport,” said Uri, and he shrugged as if the idea was absurdly melodramatic. “If you don’t want to have eggs, then don’t keep a live hen.” It was a nasty double entendre, as in Hebrew the word for eggs also meant balls. Ben Zion ignored him.
“He’s going to penetrate now.” Eytan’s voice was soft, quiet, drained of tone.
“Don’t start that again, Eckstein,” the Colonel snapped.
“All right,” said Eytan, “but he is.”
“Ya Allah,” Heinz groaned from where he sat near Itzik’s desk. He adjusted the beret under his epaulet and shook his head. He was so pleased to be wearing a uniform.
“Ariella.” Ben-Zion turned to his secretary. She was a plain-looking girl with mousy brown hair and freckles, and she looked like she’d been woken from a pleasant postcoital sleep. “You can type up the report and go home.” The girl nodded and rose from her chair. Eckstein had repeated his story three times, and she had enough notes for a novella. She left the room.
“Come on, Itzik,” Eytan sighed. “It’s only logical.” With his fingers he made a smoking motion to Baum, who threw him a pack of Time and a plastic lighter. The room already swirled with a ribbony haze like the rings of Saturn.
“Logic?” Itzik sneered. “Logic?” His tone began to rise again. “You go running off like an overemotional schoolboy and you’re selling me logic?”
“Forget about me for a minute and look at the facts.”
“Believe me, I’d love to forget about you. However, the fact is, that Kamil—if this is Kamil—may be a fanatic, but he is certainly not suicidal.”
For a moment Eytan allowed himself the luxury of a small success. All right, he had failed miserably in his attempt to ambush the terrorist. But at least Itzik was no longer deriding the claim that Kamil had resurfaced. If nothing else, Eytan’s venture had brought the truth to light, and perhaps Ben-Zion would finally take some action.
In fact, Itzik was much more firmly convinced now of enemy activity than he let on. He had listened to Eytan’s story, then made him repeat it twice. The Colonel was an ambitious career-builder first and foremost, and that cover-your-ass mentality forced him to swallow some distasteful theories. At the very least, events of the past three days surely indicated a vengeance play against Eckstein’s old team. Most of Itzik’s present anger stemmed from the fact that the captain might be right, rather than from his unauthorized mission to Europe.
On the other hand, Itzik truly did not believe that the killer or killers would attempt to penetrate Israel proper. Terrorists tried that nonsense across the borders every week, but they were mostly drugged-up, half-assed Palestinian kids from Lebanon. The professionals rarely attempted to get inside. They preferred the soft targets in Europe: airliners, restaurants, synagogues.
Based on that history, Itzik had already begun to take action to protect his interests abroad. He had done so upon hearing of Mike Dagan’s death in Cyprus the day before. He revealed his moves now, just for the record.
“However, Mr. Eckstein,” Itzik announced, “despite the fact that you may think me a bull-headed incompetent, I did not attain this post through proteksia.” He used the slang for connections. “Francie Koln is now under round-the-clock guard. Three of our people are already in Cyprus, using covers as Israeli detectives. An additional team is in Cairo, working out of the embassy.” He watched Eytan’s reaction, which gave him some arrogant pleasure. “Does that meet with your approval?”
Eytan nodded. “Thank you.” At least Francie was safe. For the time being.
“Don’t thank me. We’re not doing it for you.”
There was a knock on the door. Heinz rose and strutted to it, his combat boots slapping the tiles. A sergeant from Communications peeked in and handed the captain a telex sheet. The door closed.
Heinz took a while to read the cable, enjoying being the focus of everyone’s attention.
“Nu?” Itzik demanded.
“It’s from the Cairo embassy,” said Heinz. He began to recite the stilted decryption:
BEGIN MESSAGE. LOCAL POLICE REPORT INDIVIDUAL USING ISRAELI PASSPORT BOARDED EGYPTAIR FLIGHT 771 FOR NAIROBI AT 0145 HOURS. MANIFEST RECORDS SHOW PASSENGER’S NAME AS YOSSI YERUSHALMI. END MESSAGE.
For a moment there was silence in the room. Then Itzik rose from the edge of his desk.
“Well, Eckstein? Isn’t that the correct name?”
“Yes, but . . .” Eytan furrowed his brow.
“Yes? So what’s the problem?”
“The destination,” said Eckstein. He lifted a hand to scratch his head and then his own incredible stink washed over him. No wonder he was sitting alone in the middle of the room.
“What about it?” Itzik demanded.
“Nairobi, Eytan,” Danny Romano coaxed. “Come on, who’s in Nairobi?”
“No one.” Eytan shrugged. It didn’t fit. None of his teammates, in fact, no one he knew at all was in Kenya.
“Oh, shit.” Benni Baum finally said something. “Johann.”
“Who the hell is Johann?” Heinz asked, mimicking his boss’s impatient tone.
Benni got up from the couch and began to rub his hands. “It doesn’t make real sense, though.” He looked around at the eyes that were fixed on him. “He’s a free-lancer. One of my own. A German. He’s just a Watcher, works for me sometimes.” The image of Johann wearing his feathered hat and constantly petting his German shepherd floated before Baum’s eyes.
“So?” Itzik tried to pry it out of the burly major.
“He was on Flute in Munich, but only for an hour. No one saw him. Not even the Team.”
“I’ve never met him,” said Eytan as if lauding the major’s professionalism.
“He has a daughter, I think,” said Baum as he pulled his lip. “I seem to remember she lives in Africa. A paleontologist. Johann spends time with her occasionally. But it’s too farfetched.”
“Heinz!” Itzik clapped his hands together and his aide nearly clicked his heels. “Call Cairo on a scrambler and get that team to Kenya right away. Baum will give you this Johann’s full name and description.”
“I shouldn’t do that,” Benni began.
“Wait, Itzik,” said Eytan.
But the Colonel was already on a roll. He was smelling blood and he was going to snatch this ‘Yerushalmi’ fellow, whoever he was.
“Uri,” Itzik boomed, forgetting that the GSS man was not one of his troops. “Contact your people at Nairobi embassy and get someone to the airport immediately.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said the Shabak agent. “But I already have a boss.”
“Are you going to quibble with me?” Ben-Zion had risen to his full height and was beginning to wave his arms.
“Itzik.” Eytan was shaking his head. “Wait a minute. Please . . .”
The Colonel seemed not to hear. He strode to the door, opened it, and caught Heinz with his voice as the captain bounded down the stairwell. “And call the Civilians.” He meant the Mossad. “They have the best contacts with the Africans. Get me the duty officer on the phone.”
He slammed the door and turned back to the room. He was like a tank commander now, exposed in the turret, headed for battle and glory.
“Itzik, will you wait one minute?” Danny Romano said. “Something’s not right here.” He was gesturing at the faces of Baum and Eckstein.
“What’s not ‘right’?” Itzik snapped.
“Stop racing,” said Baum.
“What’s not right? You want this man or don’t you?”
“No,” Eytan said. He was shaking off his fatigue, trying to reason. It had taken him a minute, but now he knew. “It’s a ruse,” he said, rising painfully to his feet.
“What?” The Colonel’s face folded into an ugly grimace.
“It’s a feint, Itzik. A decoy move.”
“A what?” Ben-Zion actually kicked a chair. “Are you out of your mind?”
“You’re wasting your men,” Eytan said, forgetting his own very precarious position. He should have simply acquiesced, allowed Ben-Zion to run it out, let him fall on his face. But his problem was that he cared too much. “This is typical of him, Itzik, I’m telling you.”
“You are telling me, Eckstein? What are you telling me?!” The Colonel advanced on his battered captain, dwarfing him.
“It’s a feint to the south, Itzik!” Eytan began to shout back in defense. “It’s a typical ploy for him. He never boarded that plane.”
“Baum.” Itzik turned on the major. “This man is hallucinating.”
Benni just shrugged, which made Eytan even more desperately furious.
“He is coming straight for Tel Aviv, Colonel,” Eytan shouted. He shot a finger at the commander. “Straight for your balls. And you’re playing right into his hands again, just like a fool.”
“A what?” Itzik’s windows rattled.
“I know this man better than you, better than anyone in this room.” Eytan’s bloodshot eyes were bulging. “And if you’d listened to me last week, Mike Dagan would still be alive!”
There. He had said it. An icy silence engulfed the office. No one moved. Finally, Itzik walked behind his desk and sat down. He folded his hands together and placed them on the desk top.
“Ariella!” he shouted. No one spoke while Itzik and Eytan stared at each other like two cats before a brawl. The secretary came back into the room clutching a notepad, as she always did. “Sit,” Itzik ordered. She sat. “Take this for the record.” She poised her pencil.
Heinz, having heard the shouting match, had reappeared in the room. A vulture smelling a fresh kill.
“Captain Eckstein.” Itzik’s tone changed to one of imposed calm, though his anger had not left his face. “The word chutzpah was invented for officers such as yourself. As of this moment, you face summary court-martial for unauthorized leave. Verdict? Guilty. Sentence? Three months suspension at half pay. Forfeiture of all vacation time until further notice. Disallowance of all related expense chits.”
