Avram Maltz bled to death before help arrived.
Israeli homicide detectives and forensic specialists, wise in the ways of violent death, were forced to confront a new and novel technique, unique in their experience:
Murder by falcon.
At noon of the following day, David Hawk occupied a table at an outdoor eatery in the pleasant seaside resort town of Lulav. The Etrog café was famed throughout the land for its house specialty, the succulent lemon chicken. Hawk lunched on blander fare, fillet of sole and a salad. He wanted to concentrate on the forthcoming meeting, not a meal.
Situated north of Tel Aviv and south of Herzeliyya, Lulav was charming, chic, and not a little expensive. The café was set back from the corner of an intersection in the town's elegant shopping district. Ranged on both sides of the thoroughfare, boutiques and shops vended their wares: silverwork, leather goods, ceramics, jewelry, antiquities, a host of handicrafts made by talented artisans. Street traffic was light, pedestrians were many.
The café's main room was of white stucco, trimmed with dark wood beams and pierced with round windows. Its patio held twenty tables, most of them occupied. Each table came equipped with a parasol that could be hand-cranked open or closed; Hawk's was open. Its shade and an occasional sea breeze eased the heat of the day.
An attentive waiter removed Hawk's plate and brought him a fresh iced tea. The white-haired, keen-eyed American idly rolled a cigar in his fingers as he scanned his fellow diners.
All in all, they were a typical sampling of tourists and natives, reassuring in their sun-splashed normality.
Not far from where he sat, a young woman soldier sipped a soft drink and leafed through a book of poetry. Her insignia marked the fatigue-clad beauty as a corporal in the reserves. She must be on a break or off duty, thought Hawk. Her Galil auto-rifle stood near at hand, propped against the pavilion's waist-high balustrade.
In Israel, one quickly grew used to the sight of male and female soldiers stationed at even the most peaceful-looking places. Security was paramount.
Her image touched memories in Hawk, reminding him of some of the women he'd known, beautiful and dangerous and brave. During World War II, when he was one of Wild Bill Donovan's OSS crew, parachuting behind enemy lines to link up with resistance partisans, he'd known a lady of the maquis, Marie… she'd gone to the wall of a Gestapo firing squad in January 1944.
Hawk sighed. The corporal must have heard him. She casually glanced up. He smiled. She smiled, too, then went back to her book.
What became of that raw recruit of so long ago, the reckless young David Hawk who thought that raw nerve and a fast gun were enough to save the world?
He was now the chief of AXE, still sticking his neck out some forty-odd years later.
Hawk was the only one at his table, but he was not alone. Two of his top agents were here with him. One of them approached his table.
Andy Stanton was a husky, handsome young fellow, an ex-Navy SEAL recruited by AXE who had distinguished himself in the field. He was pressing hard to attain the coveted Killmaster ranking.
He looked like a typical American tourist enjoying a jaunt to the Holy Land. Threading the aisles between tables, he sidestepped to avoid a platter-laden waiter, a purposeful detour taking him right past Hawk.
Andy whispered in an aside, "Griff spotted our man." He kept on walking, not breaking stride. He eyed the corporal with open admiration. Her slow, sidelong glance showed she did not object to the attention from the big, good-looking man.
At the other side of the raised patio, a wide gap opened in the balustrade, allowing broad, shallow stairs to spill to the sidewalk.
Up those stairs scurried a disreputable-looking character clad in a wrinkled white suit and straw Borsalino hat. Head hunched forward, body stooped, hands jammed in pockets, he crossed the pavilion as if eager to get out of the sun as soon as possible.
It took Hawk an instant to place this rumpled, nervous man as the once suave, elegant Delos Lemniak.
Looking neither left, right, nor up, he weaved past tables and patrons, on the verge of collision a half-dozen times yet somehow always veering clear at the last possible second.
At least one thing about Lemniak hadn't changed. He was still skating by on the skin of his teeth.
Lemniak made a beeline for Hawk's table. He panted, out of breath, "Holloway, good to see you."
"Delos," Hawk acknowledged.
Delos Lemniak had been bouncing around the Levant and the eastern Mediterranean for decades. He was a fixer and a bagman, dealmaker, profiteer, corruptor. A clearinghouse for information. Everyone's friend, and no one's friend. His integrity was well known: he was scrupulously faithful to the highest bidder, regardless of race, creed, or cause.
He knew Hawk as "Bart Holloway." Holloway was a cover identity established by Hawk well over a generation ago, back before the founding of AXE. As Holloway, Hawk had made many useful connections, and he found it advantageous to resurrect the legend from time to time.
Such as now. Lemniak «knew» Holloway was CIA. Working through a cutout — a third party — Lemniak sent a message requesting a meeting. This was it.
Had Hawk suspected for one second that Lemniak knew his true identity as the head of AXE, the rendezvous would not have taken place. As himself, David Hawk was number one on a dozen kill lists.
Despite the precautions, Hawk was taking a risk. But he relished this game of multiple identities and the chance to work in the field once more.
Besides, Lemniak just might have something of value.
They shook hands. Lemniak's was soft, moist, warm. It felt like a boiled fish, and was so sweaty that Hawk's hand came away wet. Hawk wiped it clean on a napkin while Lemniak sat down. He sat facing the street.
The waiter swooped down on them. Lemniak ordered a Campari and soda. No sooner was it delivered than he gulped it down, then immediately ordered another round.
"Well, Delos, what's on your mind?" Hawk said.
"I have something to sell. Something big."
"With a price to match, no doubt."
"It's worth it."
"I'm listening."
Lemniak mopped his face with a limp handkerchief. It was already soaked, so rubbing his face with it only served to move the sweat around.
"My price is one million in gold, plus a new identity in the country of my choice," he said.
Hawk's smile was ice-cold. "Why not ask for the moon, too, while you're at it?"
"I don't understand."
"Back in the States, our government is running up a trillion-dollar deficit. Uncle Sammy is way in debt and it's time for belt-tightening. Not that I could have gotten you a million even in the salad days."
"A million is cheap for what I've got," Lemniak hissed.
"What have you got? You know how the game is played, Delos. We don't buy a pig in a poke. Give me some idea of what you've got, then we'll talk."
"All right. I…"
Lemniak gave a violent start as two gaily shrieking youngsters dashed past the table. Seated a few tables away, their mother gave Hawk one of those what-can-you-do? looks.
Lemniak stopped shaking and got a grip on himself. He was in sad shape, a bundle of nerves.
"Militant Islam," he said.
Hawk sighed. "If that's your big secret, we might as well call it a day. We've known about Militant Islam since the organization was formed in Qom six months ago. Nice seeing you again, Delos. The drinks are on me."
Lemniak was under pressure and Hawk tightened the screws by making as if he were about to leave.
"Don't be so cocksure, Holloway." Lemniak was rattled, and showing it. "What about Operation Ifrit? Does that mean anything to you?"