During those weeks, our Hamosad contacts had kept Leah and me informed of developments. The catch was that there hadn't been any developments. All Hamosad had learned was that SLA headquarters was based somewhere in Syria and that its leader was Mohammed Bashir Karameh, a Palestinian who was an ex-school teacher.
Finally a Hamosad agent had come to the Samuel on a two-fold mission: to deliver an attaché case from Hawk and to apprise us of Hamosad's latest scheme. At the time, the attaché case had not been a mystery. I knew it contained Wilhelmina, my 9-millimeter P08 Luger, Hugo, my pencil-thin stiletto; and Pierre, my special gas bomb.
But I hadn't been prepared for the second part of the agent's mission. Neither had Leah.
The agent had explained that for almost two months the Shin Bet — uniformed Israeli security — and the Hamosad had been watching an Arab place of business in Jerusalem, a small shop that sold religious items to tourists, items that only Christians would buy. Hamosad believed that the House of Medals was the headquarters of the SLA cell in Jerusalem. In several days the Shin Bet would raid the House of Medals.
I had disagreed completely with the strategy and had informed the Hamosad that one man would have a better chance of capturing members of the Syrian terrorist organization in the shop, than dozens of Shin Bet boys. At first, the big brass in Hamosad had been reluctant, but finally I had persuaded the Israelis to come around to my logic, pointing out that if the Shin Bet surrounded the shop there would be a lot of corpses. It wouldn't be easy to storm the place. And suppose the SLA crackpots destroyed the shop with explosives? Scores of people would be killed or wounded. Another flaw in the Hamosad's plan was that there were numerous possibilities of escape from the shop, unless the SLA people inside were taken by surprise. The streets of the Temple Area were as narrow as alleys and they twisted and climbed in crooked patterns. Some of the streets were covered and resembled tunnels. There were all manner of steep passages and declivities. If any of the SLA members escaped to this maze of streets, they'd never be caught. One man would have a better chance of taking the SLA off guard and completing the raid with some measure of success.
What I hadn't counted on was Leah's insistence that she go along. Nor had I been able to throw up a counter-argument, for what she had said made sense. If one person had a good chance, then two should be twice as good, especially if they were disguised as an elderly man and woman.
The next day, Leah and I had gone to a Hamosad «safe» house on Derech Hagevura Street, and Hamosad makeup experts had gone to work on us. Three hours later, Leah and I were on our way to Jerusalem.
Chapter Two
The Volvo bounced along over the rough stones of the road.
"We'll turn on Shlomo Hamelech and enter the Temple Area by way of the NewGate entrance," the driver called over his shoulder. "The House of Medals is on St. Francis Way."
"Yes, I know the area," Leah said. "St. Francis Way is only a short distance from the New Gate Road. Let us out close to the Holy Sepulchre. We'll walk the rest of the way."
The driver slowed the car and we proceeded in silence. I had been in Jerusalem before and this was familiar territory to me. Nothing had changed. Hebrew and Arab newspapers were still being sold from the same stands. But cigarettes had risen in price. The Volvo passed a sign: American cigarettes $1.80 a pack.
Slowly, we drove past tiny stalls selling a favorite tidbit, round rolls encrusted with sesame seeds and served with hard-boiled eggs. Other stalls sold gazoz, a raspberry-flavored carbonated water. There were open sheds displaying felael, a kind of vegetarian meatball made of chick-peas and peppers; and neat Occidental posters advertising Ponds Almond Cream. There were stalls of dried figs, miniature apricots, almonds from the other side of the Jordan, mysterious-looking herbs from India, walnuts, vine leaves, and bright-orange lentils.
Leah turned to me and placed her hand on my arm. "You've been very silent, Nick." Her voice was as soft as rose petals. "But you shouldn't worry about me. I've seen my share of violence."
I realized that like all Israeli girls Leah had seen service in the small Israeli Army. Just the same, if she came unglued if and when the shooting started, the whole damn deal could fall apart. I was going to have enough to do without having to watch out for her. But only a fool or a philosopher ever tells a woman what he's really thinking. I was neither.
I looked at Leah and mused, "It's ironic… some would say sacrilegious, that the SLA should have a cell functioning within the Jerusalem Temple Area, just a short distance from the famous Wailing Wall. On the other hand, the Moslem Dome of the Rock is also close by. I suppose that sort of evens things out." I lit one of my gold-tipped cigarettes. "Actually, the Wall and the Rock are only symbols, symbols that reach their highest state of power in struggles between good and bad principles of social orders personified in heroes and villains, gods and devils, allies and enemies, and the like. Your Wailing Wall is a good example of symbolism. A million Jews would go out and gladly die to protect that wall, the most precious of all their symbology."
Leah's laugh was low and amused. "You're right. Nick. But don't say 'your wall. I'm an atheist. But to those who believe, it's the Wailing Wall, more than anything else, that convinces them that they're living in the City of God. Yes, the Wall is a symbol. Yet no monument has ever given a people such a collective strength."
The driver of the car turned his head sideways and said in a voice tense with emotion, "It's because of the Wall that we Jews in Israel are able to say, 'We are surrounded by millions of Arabs, but we have no fear. »
I didn't comment. If the man wanted to believe in a wall of stones that was his business. As far as I was concerned it had been U.S. military aid that so far had saved tiny Israel, not a pile of ancient rocks that, supposedly, had once been part of Solomon's Temple.
The House of Medals popped up in my mind again. If and when the shooting started, the Shin Bet would make a two-pronged attack on the building, coming in and rushing both the front and back entrances. The trap would be closed, hopefully, on at least one SLA agent. With some forceful persuasion, he or she might provide some clue to the location of SLA headquarters in Syria. If we got really lucky, the captured agent might even have some information about the LNG plot.
The driver called back, "I'm going to have to park up ahead. The streets are getting too narrow. I'm as close as I can get to the Holy Sepulchre."
Leah checked her large shopping bag resting on the floor of the car. In the bag, underneath a few dummy packages, was an Israeli-made UZI 9mm submachine gun.
I checked to make sure Wilhelmina was resting securely in her shoulder holster, then held up my right arm and looked down my sleeve. Hugo was secure in his chamois case: a flick of my wrist and the stiletto would slide into my hand, handle first.
I took another long drag from the cigarette and flipped it out of the window.
"The way you smoke!" Leah chided. "Don't you believe the warning of your own Surgeon General?"
"You have it backwards," I said. "The tobacco industry has determined that it's the Surgeon General who's dangerous to the health of smokers. Are you ready?"
Five minutes later, Leah and I were walking along on the ancient stones of St. Francis Way, or rather, we were hobbling as though slowed by the passage of years. While Leah held onto my elbow, I walked with the aid of an old-fashioned hickory cane with a curved handle.