After landing in Tel Aviv, Blaine negotiated customs easily, stowed his single suitcase temporarily in an airport locker, and pushed his way through the throngs of travelers for the taxi stand outside Ben Guiron. The driver left him to his thoughts in the cab’s backseat and pulled into traffic headed for Tel Aviv.
The Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service, maintains regular shifts at Ben Gurion Airport. Often disguised as fidgety travelers, or fliers seated near their suitcases in apparent consternation over a delay, even garbed as sanitation personnel, they wait and watch day and night for the entry of suspicious persons. Although possible routes of enemy penetration into Israel are many and diverse, it remains surprising how many potential enemies make their entry right at Ben Gurion.
The Mossad agent who spotted the casually dressed bearded man making his way from immigration to baggage claim was on duty behind a monetary exchange counter. As soon as the bearded man had gone, he moved to a phone directly behind his desk and dialed his control.
“Are we expecting anything from the Americans?” he queried after standard codes were exchanged.
“CIA?”
“Independent more likely. Possibly by invitation.”
“I’ll run the checks. Someone grab your eye?”
“Yes. An old friend of ours just flew in….”
McCracken had the driver take him into Jaffa and deposit him at the Ottoman Clock Tower in Haganah Square. With the bustling modern skyscrapers of Tel Aviv looming above, the old city of Jaffa maintained a tight, imponderable hold on the past, thanks to the outdoor flea market filled with salesmen pitching their wares from stands on the sidewalk, moving carts, or open-front shops. The peddlers and shopkeepers strain their voices to have their boasts of bargains heard and heeded. The quality of merchandise is generally low, but the spirit of the merchants who battle for street space and customers is keen.
From the clock tower, Blaine headed down Yefet Street and swung left on to Oley Tsiyon toward the center of the market. Less than a block later his nose was assaulted by the sharp aroma of freshly caught fish being showcased on hooks or ice at the market across the street. The entrance to the flea market just beyond was signalled by arrays of Oriental rugs draped over car hoods and roofs. As more merchants appeared, the market’s borders continued to expand, filling up every available foot of sidewalk and storefront and forcing would-be buyers into the streets to compete for space with vehicular traffic.
The shop Fett had sent him to was of the permanent variety: a building, not a pushcart. Blaine took his time getting there, wanting to become familiar with his surroundings. In addition to the rugs piled everywhere, used clothing seemed a hot item along with cheap, flashy pieces of jewelry. McCracken was most intrigued, though, by the miniature warehouse-like buildings selling ancient appliances. The incredibly high duties placed on such merchandise by the Israeli government turned convenience items like modern refrigerators and televisions into luxuries here. These items were recycled over and over again to meet the demand for them, in spite of the fact that many looked antiquated to the point of decay.
The buildings housing them were no different. Jaffa was a city mired in its historical past, the ancient structures virtually untouched by redevelopment or renewal. Torn and tattered awnings flapped in the faint breeze. Windows peeked out from behind shutters more broken than whole. The buildings were constructed mostly of stone, smoked gray or black through the years. These aged structures had a dusty, heated scent that McCracken found repellent.
A man easing a battered refrigerator from the back of his truck forced Blaine to veer off the sidewalk onto the street. Traffic was snarled, and all movements had been reduced to maddening stops and starts, accompanied by a regular chorus of horns. He passed an old man whose wares were laid out on a blanket in what should have been the right-hand lane. The old man was munching on a pita sandwich and barking to passersby amidst mouthfuls.
The street and sidewalks grew more cluttered by the moment, although more people seemed to be looking than buying. McCracken eased by an Arab merchant operating from behind a pushcart and slid between a pair of cars frozen in traffic. A young man on a bicycle nearly collided with him, and Blaine was forced up against a boy pulling a pair of used jeans on over his gym shorts to check the fit while the salesman spit on in Hebrew about the potential bargain.
The knickknack shop Fett had directed him to was located on a corner at the southern edge of the market. Blaine dodged a bunch of leather handbags dangling over the entrance and stepped inside, delighted to be out of the sun. The smell of leather replaced that of age in his nose. Blaine felt immediately better.
A young woman approached him in search of a sale.
“I believe you’re holding something for me,” he told her, and produced the Egyptian bill Fett had given him back in Reading as the signal.
“Right this way,” the young woman said.
They moved to a door in the rear of the shop. She opened it for him and smiled. Blaine accepted the invitation and entered. There, seated behind a single desk in the cramped quarters, was an old crone, her gray hair tied up in a bun and her stooped frame draped in a baggy black dress.
“Close the door!” she ordered. After McCracken had done so, she said, “Sit! Now!”
There was only one chair available, that being right in front of the desk she was squeezed behind. All light in the room came through a single uncovered window, and it was more than enough for Blaine to size up the crone. He noticed that only one eye was regarding him. The other was shut and almost encased by layers of sun-wrinkled flesh. Her hands were not visible, and Blaine wondered if they might be holding a weapon on him even now.
“You know why you here?” the hag wanted to know after he was seated.
“Not really.”
“You know!” she raged. “You had the bill!”
“Oh, I know what I’m doing here all right. But I’m not clear on why I’m not talking to Evira herself.”
“Evira wants it this way.”
“Do you know where they’re holding my son?”
“I not speak of—”
“But Evira does, doesn’t she?”
“I know only what she tells me, what she wants me to know. I here to explain as best I can. I know what Fett told you.”
“Then we both know he told me nothing.”
“He told you what he knew. Evira don’t trust him. Evira trust no one but you. You only man who can stop weapon from being used.”
“What weapon?”
“What you know of Yosef Rasin?” she asked him instead of answering.
“Fanatic from the Meir Kahane school, only a hundred times more fanatical. Hates all Arabs and encourages turmoil in the occupied zones. On one occasion he publicly demanded forced birth control for all Arabs living in Israel. I think castration was the word he used. Even so, his fanaticism has found a following. With half the government willing to concede a Palestinian state on the West Bank, there are plenty in this country who are starting to take his side because they’ve got nowhere else to go.”