“Not for the first time, old friend,” said the ambassador. “And, I hope, not for the last, given your predilection to share the snorto-de-luxe… by the way, this white burgundy is probably the best I’ve ever had.”
“They keep a darned good cellar here,” replied Arnold. “Shall we just sit quietly and have a drink, or do you want to have a look at the menu?”
Kathy spoke first. “Let’s just have a drink,” she said. “Unless David’s in a rush.”
“Not me, my dear,” he said courteously. “I’m happy to sit here with my two favorite people and sip the finest wine on earth until midnight if necessary.”
“That’s good,” said Arnold, sipping luxuriously. “Because there’s a character who looms from our past who’s just become highly topical.”
“There is? And who might that be?” asked the ambassador.
“Do you remember General Ravi Rashood?”
“Remember him! Jesus Christ, I still wake up in the night thinking about him. What’s he done now?”
“Well, nothing we actually know about. But we have some interesting new information about him.”
“And I bet I know where you got it.”
“I bet you don’t.”
“Okay, how about Guantánamo Bay, where you’re grilling the Boston airport bombers?”
“Now, how the hell do you know that?” asked the admiral, plainly incredulous.
“During the course of this evening,” said the Israeli, deadpan, “you may become astounded at some of the things I know.”
Both men laughed. But Arnold Morgan looked serious when he said, “No one knows who we have and who we don’t have in Guantánamo. Except, apparently, the Mossad.”
“We don’t know much,” said Gavron. “We just heard from one of our lawyers that both the wounded man who had the bomb, and the big cheese you picked up in New York, have been removed from the U.S. civilian justice system. We actually guessed the rest. Guessed, specifically, that you would want both terrorists out of the way, under military security, where you could interrogate them in peace and hopefully get some answers.”
“And that brought you to Guantánamo?”
“Absolutely. But I’m not going to ask you to confirm that. Because it’s none of our business. But I’ll say one thing: we would be inordinately grateful if you could help us to nail that terrible bastard Rashood… sorry, Kathy.”
“David, you forget, I live in the ops room of a nuclear submarine. Even our clocks chime the bells of the watch-I haven’t known the correct time for years, and I’m really used to sailor’s language.”
David Gavron smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Anyway, back to that terrible bastard Rashood… we’d do anything to find him. But he’s always escaped us, in Israel, in Syria, in France, once even in London. He always seems to be one jump ahead.”
“So you’ll be pleased to know I may have a permanent address for him?” interjected the admiral.
“Pleased? My entire country would be thrilled. He’s done us a huge amount of damage, and he’s still out there. Somewhere.”
Arnold Morgan, sensing an advantage, decided to keep his guest on the hook for a while. “Okay, let’s have a look at the menus, shall we? David, I don’t want you to get overexcited on an empty stomach.”
They read through the short list, three appetizers, four entrees. “All fresh, nothing frozen, and no bullshit,” said Arnold, glancing up at the newly arrived Deanna and saying, “Crab cakes, and then rack of lamb, please… Kathy?”
“Sea scallops and grilled rockfish, please.”
David Gavron went for gravlax and then breast of duck with risotto, spinach, and port sauce. All three of them were accustomed to making swift, firm decisions.
“Arnie, do you really have an address for Rashood?”
“Of course I do, and since you plainly know our source, you’ll understand we have assessed it as highly reliable.”
“Will you tell me?”
“Got a pen?”
David Gavron produced a slim gold ballpoint and a wafer-thin leather notepad, and looked up expectantly.
“He’s in Syria,” said Arnold. “ Damascus, Old City, right inside the Roman wall near the eastern gate. Bab Touma Street. Less than a hundred yards from the Bab Touma Gate itself, left-hand side of the street coming in from the Barada River bridge.
“Sorry we don’t have a street number, our informant did not know, and if he had known he’d have told us. He said it’s a big eighteenth-century house right around the corner from the Elissar restaurant.”
“That’s fantastic, Arnie. Does he live there with his wife?”
“What wife?”
“Oh, a Palestinian girl he met right after he defected from the Israeli army. I heard they were married almost immediately. She’s supposed to be very beautiful. And she’s also very dangerous-apparently gunned down two French secret servicemen a couple of years back, in Beirut.”
“She had a good tutor,” said Admiral Morgan.
“None better,” said David Gavron. “Ex-SAS major, wasn’t he? His background’s still a mystery, and the Brits won’t tell even us who he really is.”
“Nor us,” said the Admiral. “I think the guy embarrassed the hell out of ’em. Ramshawe says he’s from a rich family, Iranians living in London. He went to Harrow School and then the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, ended up commanding their top special forces, and then jumped ship and joined the goddamned Palestinians.”
“Harrow’s one of their top private schools, right?” asked Kathy.
“Sure is. Churchill went there. Guess they taught him about patriotism.”
“Probably taught the former Major Kerman too,” said David. “But he couldn’t sort out who he was, not until he ended up back in the desert. Funny, isn’t it? Turning his back on everything like that, becoming an enemy of everything he’d ever known.”
“Sure as hell is,” responded the admiral. “Can’t hardly imagine waking up one morning as a decorated, serving British Army officer, and suddenly deciding to be a goddamned Arab terrorist! Jesus Christ. Must have been some turning point.”
“Arnie, are you planning to get after him?” asked the ambassador.
“Not right now. Not with the Middle East peace talks coming up. We couldn’t afford to get caught, or even suspected.”
“Happily, my former organization suffers from no such constraints. You may leave it to us.”
“I had hoped so, David.”
“Yes, I guessed as much. There is, after all, no such thing as a free dinner. Especially one as good as this.”
Inside the briefing room, the atmosphere was subdued. The Israeli general, a man in his sixties, standing in front of the big computer screen on the wall, spoke quietly and firmly, pointing with his baton at the illuminated map of Bab Touma Street, Damascus.
“Right here,” he said, “we have rented an apartment on the third floor. It’s pretty basic, but it has a bathroom, cold water only, and electricity. Our field agents have moved in a couple of mattresses and some blankets. But you’re going to be uncomfortable. There’s no workable kitchen and nothing to cook on. We have installed an electric kettle and a coffeepot. There’s not much else.”
Before him, sitting at the conference table, were four ex-military secret service officers. All of them, for the moment, wore olive-green uniforms and had duffel bags slung on the floor next to them, alongside their M-16 machine guns. Two of these men wore the coveted wings signifying membership in Israel’s elite parachute division. They both wore officers’ bars on their shoulders. All four of them had the distinguishing three small Hebrew letters stitched in yellow above the breast pocket.
“You will see from the map, gentlemen, that this apartment has a commanding view of the big house directly opposite, and we were damn lucky to get it. An old Arab man used to live there, and we paid him generously to get out. While you are in residence, you will ignore his mail, answer the door to no one, and use cell phones only under the most dire circumstances.