"Noah Aaharon Crane is 48 years old. I expect that's a relief, eh? No worries about keeping up with an old timer like that. His father was a British soldier stationed in Palestine at the outbreak of the Second War, married locally, got himself killed in Normandy.
"By the time he was 18 he had spent his childhood in Israel, and his adolescence in the UK. He joined the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment, that was 1959.
He served with the Regiment in Borneo and Aden and in Northern Ireland, he made it to sergeant and his records speak of a first-class soldier. But his mother died in 1971, and for reasons that are close to him, Crane left the British army, flew to Israel and joined up with what they call the Golani Brigade. The file indicates that he had a sense of guilt at not having visited his mother – who was Jerusalem born and bred – for many years during the last part of her life, that a sense of blame took him back to her country. As an infantry man he earned a glittering record after his induction into the IDF. He was with the Golani at the retaking of Mount Hermon in 1973, he was in Lebanon in '78, he was a member of the assault squad on the old Crusader castle of Beaufort in '82. He was good enough to be a regular, he was hardened by combat experience, but he seems to have next to no interest in promotion. In fact it is difficult to locate what interests outside the I D F he does have. His only living relative is his mother's sister, living somewhere in North London. He has never married.
He refuses leave. There are men like that in our army, every fighting machine throws them up. They are difficult, awkward men. In time of war they are a godsend, in time of peace they are arseholes for nuisance value… I'm digressing… after the capture from the Palestinians of the Beaufort castle, twelfth century in origin but an excellent artillery spotting position, a particularly bloody battle, Crane's unit was pushed north and east into the Beqa'a valley, and he stayed there. He stayed put. He became a fixture for three years of Israeli presence there. Some inspired staff man back at the Defence Ministry seemed to have it locked into his head that the Beqa's represents a hack door to Damascus, a way round the Golan Heights. By the time that Israel abandoned its positions and retreated, Noah Crane had inquired as much knowledge of that valley as any man in the I D F. It is our assessment that he, alone, can get into the Beqa'a, do a job of work, and get out."
"Is this sanctioned by government?"
"Official Secrets Act, Holt – sanctioned from on high."
"You said 'difficult' and 'awkward'."
"You'll cope."
Holt stood. "I never had a chance, did I?"
"Of course you didn't. You have become, Holt, an instrument of government policy."
"And if I was to say I was frightened?"
"Frightened? You ought to be grateful. It was the girl you were screwing that was shot, Holt. I'd have thought you'd have been jumping at the chance to get stuck in."
"I'll do it," Holt said.
"Don't make a big song and dance about it," Percy Martins smiled.
"I will go into the Beqa'a valley and I will identify a Palestinian terrorist so that he can be killed with the sanction of my government."
"We don't play fanfares round here."
"And when I come back I will scrape my knuckles raw on the end of your nose."
A wider smile from Percy Martins. "You do just that."
Late afternoon came, and the crowds of the capital's workers were streaming towards the rail termini and the bus stops and the Underground platforms. It was the time of day when the Director General usually slipped anonymously into the Whitehall entrance of the Cabinet office to take the discreet tunnel to Downing Street.
The Prime Minister read the list. "Arson attempt on Israeli Tourist Office, Fateh responsible. Failed assassination attempt on Iraqi ambassador, Fateh responsible. Gun attack on El Al bus with fatalities, Wadia Haddad group responsible. Letter bomb sent to Iraqi embassy, source unknown. Iraqi arrested while carrying explosives and on way to IRA link-up, source unknown. Own goal as bomb explodes at hotel, Wadia Haddad group responsible. Shooting of Israeli ambassador, Abu Nidal responsible. Arson at Jewish Club, source unknown. Bomb explodes near Bank Leumi of Israel, source unknown. Bomb explodes near Marks
amp; Spencer's main branch, source unknown. Thwarted attempt to buy sophisticated military sabotage equipment, P F L P General Command responsible. Bomb explodes at Jewish-owned travel business, source unknown. Interception of explosives courier, Abu Nidal responsible. Attempt to place live bomb on El Al jet liner, Syrian Air Force Intelligence responsible… It's a truly sickening list."
"That's just Arab terrorism in London, Prime Minister, in the last several years. On top of that we should add attacks on British nationals abroad – the machine gun attack on the women and children of our servicemen in Cyprus – grenade attacks on hotels used by British tourists in Greece – that's a whole other list, which ends with the deaths of the ambassador and Miss Canning."
"Sir Sylvester Armitage was a fine man, a great servant of his country."
"Whose death should be avenged."
The Prime Minister hesitated. The suggestion had been made, but the decision was the Prime Minister's alone.
"It can be done.?''
"A small surgical operation into the Beqa'a valley?
Yes, it can be done."
''How many men?"
"Just two A Jewish Briton who is familiar with the ground, skilled in covert work and a marksman, he will travel with young Holt who will identify the target."
"So few?" the Prime Minister murmured. "Would there be Israeli assistance?"
"Inside Israel, yes. Inside Lebanon, we would assume that also yes." The Director General stood at his full height, avuncular and confident. "But it would be our show, Prime Minister."
"Against the man who pulled the trigger on our ambassador?"
"Indeed that very man We would be acting in the very theatre where others talk about acting. We would not be scattering bombs over an international city in the hope they might find a target. We would be going for one man with whom we have a known score to settle."
"A marksman and a spotter," the Prime Minister mused. "Would they get out?"
"We've chosen the best possible soldier for the job."
The decision to be taken alone. The memory of sitting in a country church, hearing the tears of Armitage's granddaughter, of watching a coffin carried along the aisle, bedecked with spring flowers. The memory of many outrages, of television news clips of broken shop fronts, of blood smears on inner London pavements, of bodyguards crammed into armour-plated limousines.
"Bring me his head," the Prime Minister snapped.
The curtains were drawn, the fire smouldered.
Holt sat on a sofa. The light in the room was low as two of the five bulbs in the ceiling formation were dead.
Percy Martins was saying, "The Yanks cannot actually put this sort of operation together. You don't believe me? Well, I'll tell you. Their Special Forces have an annual budget of over a billion dollars, can you imagine that much money spent on one division-sized unit? No good, though. They have the Delta Force, and the helicopter Task Force 168, and the Air Force Special Operations Wing, but they're no damned good. They're more interested in saucy cap badges and expenses. Do you know that when they wanted to drop a squad on a hijacked liner in the Mediterranean, the Pentagon had to give permission for half the squad to leave United States' territory, and why? Because the squad was under investigation for fiddling expenses. Their kit doesn't work. They're too late on the scene. The Germans are fine, up to a point, but at Mogadishu when they stormed an airliner it was Britons who can-opened the plane for them and chucked in the stun grenades. When the Italians have a problem they get on the phone pretty damn quick and call up help from us… "