It was true. Even now, four Al-Nakbah assassin teams were mobilizing. Securing planes. Renting speedboats. Getting weapons. Purchasing ammunition and smuggling explosives into the assembly points. And Al-Nakbah intel operatives around the world were doing everything possible to track down the location of Doron and Sa'id. Jibril sent out a coded e-mail saying a friend needed a new chess set. He was missing "two kings" and looking for precise replacements. Anyone with suppliers who knew anything about chess and might be helpful in tracking down these "two kings" was requested to contact him at once. Prices were negotiable, but time was of the essence.
Gogolov wasn't worried. Spread around enough money and the truth could always be bought. Besides, they weren't relying solely on Al-Nakbah's sleepers and "suppliers." The intelligence networks of the Saudis, Syrians, and of course the Iranians all had their ears to the ground. So did the Libyans. Khaddafi's spy network in southern Europe was extraordinary, as was his new alliance with Al-Nakbah. Khaddafi was restless. He'd been out of the game too long. Reagan had scared him off. Now MacPherson was ticking him off. He wanted back in, and was ready to play hardball.
With so many people looking, they'd pick up something soon. If not through their own sources, then maybe through the media's. Marcus Jackson's front-page story in this morning's Sunday New York Times was extraordinary. "Point Man for Peace Conducting Covert Talks." Gogolov had already read the entire story on-line, twice. It was a little thin on hard facts. But it was full of speculation and nondenial denials that the Israeli and Palestinian prime ministers and the architect of President MacPherson's peace plan were holed up somewhere in the Middle East or southern Europe, talking a deal.
According to two Israeli Knesset sources, Doron hadn't been seen for three days, going on four. Sa'id had shown up on Al Jazeera television New Year's Eve, but he'd done the broadcast by satellite and it was unclear, even to the broadcast engineers, from where the signal had originated. An unnamed Saudi diplomat in Riyadh, meanwhile, was quoted as saying flat out that "the United States is conducting a covert peace process under the cover of war in Palestine." A senior European Union Parliament member was quoted as saying "such rumors of covert peace talks, without E.U. and U.N. participation — if true — would be troubling, to say the least."
The White House, according to Jackson's story, refused comment, but they weren't outright denying the substance of the story. Press Secretary Chuck Murray said simply, "Military operations in the Holy Land are our prime focus right now. Our forces are there as peacemakers, and obviously the U.S. government is committed to doing whatever we can to end hostilities and bring both sides back to the table. Beyond that, it's all just speculation."
Secrets were hard to keep in the information age. But soon enough, they'd know the truth.
"So relax, Zhiri," Gogolov insisted, lighting up another cigar. "It'll happen when it happens. Until then, why don't you come play our little Mohammed a game of chess. He can't beat a master like me. Maybe he'll have a chance with a drunk like you."
They could see the twin engine coming in on final approach.
It was an hour late, but at least it was there. Traffic on Winston Churchill Avenue, the main thoroughfare from the Frontier — the border crossing with Spain — into the small city of Gibraltar came to a halt as crossing gates went down, lights began to flash, and every driver and pedestrian was warned another plane was about to touch down.
The airport that serviced the Rock wasn't the world's busiest, or its safest. The numbers told the story. It was true that Prince Charles and Princess Diana flew into Gibraltar on the way to their honeymoon cruise on the royal yacht Britannia. But they were the exception. Of the 6 million tourists who visited each year, less than a hundred thousand came by plane. Locals claimed no atheist had ever landed there. Perhaps someone could be an atheist when he or she got on a plane bound for Gibraltar, people would say. But nobody who'd ever encountered the fierce crosswinds and harrowing approach into a runway jutting a half mile into the Atlantic and traversing directly across the peninsula's busiest street ever got off that plane without thanking God for surviving the landing.
Even from this distance, they could now see the distinctive orange-and-purple letters of the FedEx logo, and both silently hoped their "package" was unharmed. The Sunday sky was overcast and chilly. Two new storms were brewing — one was coming down the coast of Spain from the North Atlantic, the other was sixty or seventy miles eastward over the Mediterranean. They were poised to make an unusually harsh winter even worse, but forecasters said Gibraltar should have at least a few days of respite until the new fronts moved in, and Bennett and McCoy were grateful. They needed to be outside for a while. They needed some fresh air. And they were looking forward to seeing Dr. Eliezer Mordechai again. He'd been a good friend and a wise mentor for them both. He'd been an invaluable asset in helping them understand how best to negotiate with his fellow Israelis. Better yet, he said he was "bearing gifts from afar," whatever that meant.
Bennett and McCoy sat alongside the tarmac in the back of a black, armor-plated Chevy Tahoe, not far from two navy Seahawks waiting to take the SEALS back to their base at Rota, Spain, when this mission was done. Tariq was at the wheel of the Tahoe, scanning the environment from behind his aviator sunglasses. Four more agents from ST-8's Gold Team watched over them and their surroundings from a minivan twenty yards away. Sa'id and Doron were still safely inside the "Mount of Olives" It wasn't time to let them outside. Not just yet.
Fifteen minutes later, Bennett, McCoy, and Dr. Mordechai were sitting inside a cafe halfway up the Rock. They ordered fish and chips and asked the former Mossad chief all about his trip and his health while their security team took up positions inside and out of the restaurant.
"In the spirit of peace and friendship, allow me to offer a toast," McCoy said, holding up her glass. "To Dr. Eliezer Mordechu, who absolutely, positively had to be here overnight — and wasn't."
The three clinked glasses. Mordechai and McCoy had a good laugh. Bennett seemed far away, worried about his mother, worried about the impact Marcus Jackson's front page story in The New York Times was going to have on the peace process.
"Thanks for coming," McCoy offered. "We really appreciate it."
"Not at all," the old man replied. "It's my pleasure. I'm sorry for the delay."
"Don't worry about it. Actually, today's a good day. We've given our two 'friends' the day off to consult with their 'friends,' so for the first time in too long, we've got a little time on our hands."
Mordechai nodded his appreciation to McCoy and then turned back to Bennett.
"Good, good. Now, Jonathan, what's the latest with your mother? I've been worried."
Bennett's already gloomy expression darkened further. His pain was barely contained under the surface, and Mordechai could immediately sense it wasn't a topic he wanted to discuss, especially after the update he'd received the night before. Fortunately McCoy could see it as well and graciously stepped in.
"Someone's using Jon's old cell phone — the one he used at GSX. They made two calls to his aunt in Buffalo on New Year's Eve, and now they've electronically withdrawn several hundred dollars from Mrs. Bennett's checking account."
"How would they have gotten the phone? And the PIN number?"
"We have no idea. Jon forgot the phone at his mom's house when he was visiting there for a few days, after coming back from the hospital in Germany. He asked her to look for it, but she never found it. She doesn't have a cell phone herself. Hasn't ever used one or wanted one. And she almost never withdraws large amounts of money from her checking account."