"You 've got mail. "
It was past midnight Tuesday morning in Tehran, but Mohammed Jibril was restless. He deleted most of the garbage in his in-box. It was a mishmash of different stuff from operatives and informants around the world. But none of it was what he was looking for. But just as he was about to log off, an instant message came in. It was from Harrod's in London. Jibril's stomach tightened.
"The gift shop in Gibraltar may have found the item you were looking for… please IM back or call our toll-free secure number if you're interested… Time sensitive… product may not be in stock for long."
The gift shop in Gibraltar? That was the cutout man they'd used to transmit messages to Khalid al-Rashid, the Arafat security chief who'd set the whole last week in motion. He had no idea what the guy's name was. But it didn't really matter. How would they know anything about…
Jibril froze.
"Please remind me… which product are we talking about again?"
He pressed Send and waited. A few seconds later, the reply popped up.
"… hand-painted chess set for your friend… understand he lost his two kings… our supplier in Gibraltar thinks he's stumbled upon just what you wanted."
Jibril just stared at the screen.
"… need 100 percent confirmation… are you sure?"
"… supplies limited," came the reply, "… cost triple what we quoted you before… must be wire transferred by day's end…"
Jibril had no problem with that. If they really had what he thought they had, he'd have paid them ten times their asking price.
"… have to check with my friend… but latest price quote shouldn't be a problem… but how can I know you have precisely the two kings he's looking for…"
Again he hit Send. This time the reply took longer. Almost a minute.
Jibril was dying for an answer. Should he resend his last message? Had it not gone through?
BEEP.
There it was.
"… my supplier is sure… the knight just walked into his store not ten minutes ago with a queen and some pawns… bought a gift for his mother… actually paid with a credit card… couldn't believe it… will fax copy of the transaction if you'd like… "
Jibril pushed away from the computer. This couldn't be accurate. Jon Bennett was on Gibraltar? With Erin McCoy and a team of bodyguards? A thousand thoughts flooded into his mind. It could be a mistake, or a gift from Allah. He had to confirm it. But how? The Libyans, perhaps. They had an operative on the Rock, some woman who ran a travel agency, if he remembered correctly.
If it were true, if Bennett was there, then Doron and Sa'id had to be there as well. But for how long? Given the leak to the Nev York Times, they could be leaving any minute. Especially if Bennett was buying gifts to take back home. If they were going to strike, they'd have to strike fast. Jibril typed in one final message. He was already taking a risk staying on line for so long.
"… if we wanted to have some friends drop in and see the merchandise, could you help us?"
"… that might be a problem…"
"… how much more of a 'problem' are we talking about?"
Another delay. Jibril couldn't take it. Two minutes later, the IM came back again.
"… my supplier says a new price of five times our original quote would do… "
The middlemen on Gibraltar were greedy. But not nearly greedy enough, thought Jibril. They had a deal, he wrote back. The money would be in their account by morning. Then he logged off and got dressed. First he'd track down the deputy chief of Libyan intelligence. It was still early in Tripoli. Then he'd wake up Gogolov.
FORTY-FOUR
The view was better than Mordechai had promised.
The food was better than Galishnikov had expected. The maitre d' was British. The wines were French. The food was Italian and North African. The chefs were Moroccan and Sicilian. The atmosphere was quiet and intimate. And every sixty minutes, the rotating restaurant took you on a 360-degree tour around the Med.
To the north, they could see the sandy beaches of the Spanish Costa del Sol and another storm moving their way. It was still fifty or sixty miles out. But it wouldn't bother them tonight. They opened a 1967 Burgundy and Galishnikov said a toast to Ruth Bennett's health and a speedy and safe reunion with her son. Soon they were working on their salads and looking southeast toward the Rif Mountains of Morocco. Mordechai kept them spellbound with tales of hunting Russian and Libyan spies through the alleyways of Casablanca as a junior Mossad agent.
Neither Israeli kept kosher, so steaks and lobster tails were served all around. It was the clearest evening on the Rock in weeks, and despite the storm clouds behind them, they could still enjoy a breathtaking sunset. The conversation meandered and after a while Bennett was looking at the sparkling lights of the City of Gibraltar, now shutting down for the night. He could see the commercial ports below them, the blinking strobe lights of the runway, and the narrow roads zigzagging up the mountain. He could see the cable car station where they'd arrived, and silently hoped Tariq would insist on driving them all down the Rock at the end of the night. He wasn't sure he was ready for another wind-battered adventure. He'd had enough adventures for one lifetime. But he could picture bringing his mom up here one day. Gibraltar was one place she'd always wanted to go and had never been. She'd never survive the flight. Maybe they could take a cruise.
Gogolov hated being woken up.
But he softened when he heard the news.
The "Mount of Olives" was the Rock of Gibraltar. How fitting, he thought as he cleaned his glasses and dressed for a long night. A NATO stronghold. A joint U.S.-British espionage base. Another example of failed treaties and the arrogance of Western imperialism. And a perfect target for his assassin teams, already poised to strike.
They finished their steaks and three waiters cleared the table.
Galishnikov ordered a tray of French pastries and a bottle of the best brandy in the house for his friends, a bottle of their best vodka for himself, and a pot of Turkish coffee for any weaklings among them. The bill had to be quickly approaching seven or eight hundred dollars, thought Bennett. But this Russian simply didn't care. And why should he? He was with his friends. They were all alive and in one piece. And he was about to become the richest man in Israel.
"So, Dr. Mordechai," Bennett began after everyone had been served.
"Please, Jonathan, how many times must I ask you to call me Eli? Ail my friends call me Eli. Why won't you?"
"Because you're practically old enough to be my grandfather."
Everyone laughed, but Bennett was ready to be serious, and Mordechai could tell. So could McCoy. The only thing Galishnikov was serious about, at the moment at least, was polishing off his bottle of Absolut.
"OK, Eli," Bennett continued, "here's my question."
"Fire away, my boy."
"What the hell is going on?"
Mordechai was a bit taken aback by the intensity of the question. So were McCoy and Galishnikov.
"What do you mean, Jonathan?"
"I mean what in the world is going on, Eli? Things are out of control. Kamikazes, snipers, anthrax — suicide bombers? What is this? We've got a war in Iraq, a Palestinian civil war, people trying to blow up the Temple Mount. I mean, I don't know, I just…"
"It's scary, isn't it?"
"Damn right it's scary. One minute I'm working on Wall Street. The next minute I'm in the middle of something… I don't know what I'm in the middle of. Everyone I know is getting killed. I can't sleep. I thought I almost lost my mom…"
Bennett finished off his brandy and stared out the window at the lights of a jet in the distance. Galishnikov poured him another glass.