“Really? Thanks. While you walk me over there, give me the damage report on the lab, Major.”
The Israeli did, telling him that the facilities were essentially unharmed, since all the crucial equipment had been moved out beforehand and replaced with dummies, and the body count was seventeen terrorists, two counterterrorists.
Which meant that the Saiyeret leader had lost someone too, and prompted Ashmead to say, with the rebelliousness of a man who’s trying to put a value on the lost life of a friend, “If that crate contains what I think it does, and you’ll trust me and not ask any questions or tell anyone about it, and you can swear your men to silence, I think you and your team ought to all have a little shot. It won’t take long.”
The Saiyeret leader raised one eyebrow: “You’re the commander, Rafic. If it’s good for us, it would be good for Colonel Netanayhu, though, so I’ll give him mine.”
Ashmead knew he was walking a thin line, but he wanted the Israelis to figure out what the serum was for and, if possible, to continue produc ing enough of it, once Beck’s mission was airborne, to inoculate every man, woman and child in Israel. One of the things he’d learned on his nation’s Covert Action staff was that murder by inaction was just as bad as murder by direct action.
“I’ll take care of Dov Netanayhu. We go back a long way.”
“I’d heard that,” said the fighter pacing him, with a quick grin. “You’re something of a legend in a venue where that sort of distinction doesn’t come easily.”
“It comes expensive,” Ashmead said gruffly.
And then they’d reached the jeep, where one splayed figure slumped in its seat turned out to be a little worm from the consulate named Pickwick, and Zaki’s mysterious “One” explained itself:
Zaki had gotten one crate, and the terrorists had gotten the other.
Ashmead, with a whisper in his transceiver to Slick to bring the medic, began to pry it open with his combat knife while the Saiyeret major formed up his ranks to get their shots.
Chapter 8
There was no hail of bullets by the time Beck and Chris Patrick drove up to the interdiction site—the Saiyeret on the east campus had seen to it that Beck was sufficiently delayed, checking his credentials and Chris’s, then double-checking, then making them wait until flak vests, replacement dosimeters and respirators for those Beck had left in his apartment, and a motorcycle escort to accompany them to the site could be found—and that only after Beck had thrown a diplomatic tantrum and called Netanayhu on a Saiyeret field phone.
Beck himself couldn’t have executed a delaying action any better. Grudgingly, he gave the Israelis the credit they deserved: they’d been told to keep him out of harm’s way and that security must be air-tight. They would and it was.
Even driving toward the site, beyond which lay Jericho and above it Jordan, Beck didn’t know where the hell he was going. He just followed the blue flashing lights on the bikes before him and fumed.
Beside him, Chris Patrick looked irresistible in her Israeli flak vest over all that silk. Beck cautioned himself not to get too attached to his agent—people died on the sort of operation Tiebreaker was shaping up to be; and, in espionage, being a woman was no protection.
His escort held them—politely but firmly—in their car while one talked to an Israeli commander with a flash hood in his belt and a black sleeve rolled up. Beyond the little knot of commandos were wrecked cars, a chopper shining a blinding searchlight on body bags being loaded into a van and, farther down the road, a makeshift medical station by a ruined jeep.
Chris sat quietly beside him, taking notes on the back of a deposit slip she’d found in his glove compartment, her lips white in the Plymouth’s courtesy lights.
When the Saiyeret leader came toward him, the commando slipped on his flash hood for anonymity and then leaned stiff-armed on the driver’s side window well, rolling down his sleeve as he said, “Mister Beck, this is a classified operation and you have a news—a press person with you. You’re welcome to look around, but she’s got to stay here. We’ll take good care of her.”
Chris Patrick looked up at the man in the mask and actually growled, a low noise in her throat that made the Saiyeret duck his head to stare at her.
“It’s standard procedure, Miss Patrick,” the commando said before Beck could intervene. “We’ve got to protect our identities… terrorist reprisals. You understand.”
“Do I look like a terrorist to you?” she demanded.
“Chris, in forty-eight hours you’re going to have all the exclusives you can handle,” Beck interjected before the Saiyeret could give her Counterterrorism 101, and touched her knee as the commando leader stood back so that Beck could get out of the car.
“Promises, promises,” he heard her say when the car door slammed; as he was walking away with the Saiyeret, she was estimating loudly how much an interview with one of those commandos would have been worth. Then one of the commandos told her she’d better roll up her window or put on her mask; she rolled up her window.
The Israeli beside him, out of Chris’s view, took off his flash hood and in the chopper’s searchlight Beck could see his black anodized major’s bars.
“Major, I’m going to need an explanation: if you people managed to be here in such well organized force, you could have been at the consulate. As far as I know, our intelligence-sharing agreement is still in effect.”
The Saiyeret steered him around a shadowy patch that turned out to be a piece of twisted fender: “Explanations aren’t my province; neither is intelligence. You wouldn’t be here if Rafic hadn’t cleared it—especially not with a girl newsie. You’ll have to talk to him about what you need—Sir.” The major’s American English was flawless but his jaw muscles ticked, his resentment barely masked: it was all he could do to be civil; his disdain for the American diplomatic corps was palpable.
And Ashmead, bare-headed but in Saiyeret blacks and sitting on the ruined jeep swinging his legs while to his left a masked Israeli medic gave commandos injections, barked at him: “What the fuck are you doing here, kid? Is it your specialty, being at the wrong place at the worst time?”
The medic gave a final stab and began putting a half full vial, alcohol, and syringes in his bag.
“If that’s what I think it is,” Beck said, flicking his eyes toward the medic and his bag as the Saiyeret major edged away and began moving his men out of earshot, “you’re way out of bounds, Rafic.”
Ashmead stopped swinging his legs and scratched behind one ear: “Beck, this is no place to talk about it, and you ought to know that.” His head turned: “Slick!”
Ashmead’s handsome deputy, his face smudged with powder residue, an Uzi swinging from his hip and a rifle slung over his shoulder, came around the jeep and gave Beck a cursory nod of acknowledgement.
“Slick, change clothes, then go introduce yourself to Miss Patrick as part of Beck’s security force and drive her home. Then take Beck’s car to my place and unload it. Beck’s coming with me.”
“Whose home—hers or his?” Slick asked with a sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Anybody’s but yours, Slick, okay? Go on, go.”
Both men could hear the deputy swearing as he trotted toward a lorry with a canvas top.