She held Ruth for a long moment, then slowly drew her hand away. She barely made a sound as she turned, picked up the dress and the sweats, stepped quickly through the door, then slammed it so hard that the mirrored closet bucked open, swinging on its hinges.
Ruth lifted her hands and looked at them. They were quivering like autumn leaves in a swift wind. She took a last puff from the cigarette, then ground it into the wall.
Her eyes slowly scanned her cell, just once more. She would start at one corner and pull and scrape at every scrap of steel molding, any part that might give, snap, open a hole, offer a weapon, something to dig with, or to kill with.
She finally knew one thing for certain. She had a stay of execution. She had to search in earnest now for a breach, a weakness in her prison, a means of escape. A way out.
Freedom, onto a continent she could not even identify.
Chapter 21: Marrakesh
Benni Baum’s fingers were wrapped around the throat of an oily green cobra, the lipless jaw nearly touching his mouth, the flat nose hissing electrically close to his ear. He stared at the head, wishing he had the power to crush the stubborn vertebrae, seeing how the horrible tail coiled around his forearm and shivered in concert with his own tremble. Of course, he was fully aware that the object of his loathing was only a telephone, yet he saw in it that same devil’s serpent he had held so many times before, whispering lies into its willing mouth.
A telephone had so often served as a conduit for his inventions that counting the sins would be hopeless, but this one had certainly been the worst of all. A cozy chat with his wife, relayed through Avraham’s office in Washington—for that was the method from “friendly” Arab states. His unsuspecting Maya, off to a picnic with their boys, home on leave, had hardly sighed at the news that her husband would be delayed in the States, so pleased that at least he and Ruth had managed a reconciliation. And how is our wayward New York scholar? Oh, she’s fine. He had smiled into the phone while his mind screamed: Our baby may be dead already, most certainly will be if I don’t do something, and heaven forgive me, it is all my fault.
Oh, she’s fine. . . .
He suddenly rose from the bed and hurled the instrument across the room. But its plastic tail was resilient, uncoiling and then snapping back, so that the satanic head flopped on the brown coverlet and lay still, hissing satellite static.
Benni stood there breathing heavily as the muted chatter in the room fell to stone silence. He swore to God that if the Holy One would get him out of this, just this once, he would never, ever lie to Maya again.
Then he realized that he was lying to God.
Eytan walked to his partner and touched him on the shoulder, the kind of exploratory contact you use with a wounded animal. Benni did not turn. He stood there looking down at the bed, where his girth had pulled the coverlet into a delta of wrinkles. He looked at his hands, his watch, the seconds ticking onward, the minutes flipping over.
Close by, Sadeen, Rick Nabbe, and Ari Schneller sat on the hotel room carpet, around a low glass coffee table. The CIA map covered the tabletop. The men held felt pens, but they did not mark the map itself, which would have been a breach of operational security. Instead, they had taped thick plastic wrap over the detail, on which they drew their arrows and circles and X’s, which was also how they would trace their individual assault and escape maps. You could hold such a device up to the moon and read it quite clearly, or destroy it quickly in one long pull.
A wastebasket overflowed with wads of plastic wrap, for the men had been plotting and discarding vehicle approaches to Klump’s camp from the north. Now, in the wake of Baum’s sudden violence, they sat in silence, fiddling with their pens, like children who have witnessed a parent’s weeping.
Eytan’s fingers finally penetrated, and Benni straightened up. This would not do, not at all. He had to reject the sympathy, throw off guilt, cover his despair and panic, for they would poison his men. He had to command, not collapse. He turned, brushed past Eckstein, and strode to the table, looking down at the work as he pulled a pack of Rothmans from his pocket. He lit up. These you could smoke without coughing to death, at least not immediately. He put his knuckles to his hips, and when Sadeen began to speak, he said, “Shhh.” The commander was working.
Before forcing his recalcitrant hands to contact Maya, he had taken the long-awaited call from Art Roselli. It should have bolstered his hope, which had taken a beating during the early-morning ride aboard the Marrakesh express from Casablanca.
“The fruit is on ice,” Arthur had said modestly. “But it will not keep for long.”
So Roselli had actually managed to take Klump’s mother, a terrible risk for the American, the mark of a true friend. Yet he could go no further than that. At any rate, Benni had never intended to take possession of the old woman in turn. But now the bluff had to be played out. Martina had “purchased” the product, and if it did not appear to be deliverable, her rage would have no bounds.
“Your friend agrees to the nuptials,” Arthur had said. “At 0100 hours her time zone, her place. That’s thirty-six hours from now.”
Roselli’s Bethesda ploy had also worked, although exactly how Martina’s HOGs in America then contacted her, were recontacted, and in turn advised Arthur was of no real interest to Benni. But he admired the CIA officer’s professionalism, had a flash fantasy of the two of them going into the private sector together. Perhaps Miami. That would be a nice, balmy, neutral place to work, though if you lost your daughter, no sun could warm you anywhere on earth.
In agreeing to the swap, Martina had also relayed her coordinates. The information was superfluous given Langley’s overflights, but it was comforting as confirmation. Still, her choice of a time for the exchange of loved ones, just five hours before Moonlight, signaled that she would not allow this glitch to sway her purpose. Arthur had strongly suggested that she turn over the Minnow along with Ruth. Martina’s final relay had been the clipped advice that he perform an impossible act of self-fornication.
For an hour the men in the room had batted about the options, finally deciding that a vehicle would have to be driven south along the Ben Zireg-Taghit road, arriving after the bulk of the team was already in position at the target. Yet this task would require a minimum of two men—one to drive and one costumed as an old woman, a ploy that had to serve until the range was very close. It was not a terribly original tactic, having been used at Entebbe with a repainted Mercedes and an Israeli double for Idi Amin. And like most brainstorms, it seemed flashy and brilliant at first, until a careful review revealed its foibles.
Benni looked over at O’Donovan, who was leaning against a low bureau, arms folded, rubbing his unshaven jaw. The bandage was gone and makeup covered his bruises, but there was still a lump at the bridge of his nose that made him look like a Dublin Jew. O’Donovan’s silences told Benni that the man did not trust himself to contribute objectively. His feelings for Ruth were much more than a crush.
Benni squinted at the high glass doors that formed the far wall of the room. The ground floor of the Hotel N’Fis opened onto flowered walkways. Beyond them, an expansive swimming pool failed to seduce most winter bathers, yet a slim Frenchwoman in a black bikini rose from her chaise longue and gracefully arced into the emerald water. Horse stood before the sliding doors, his rounded posture tensing as he watched her, as if he were participating in a funeral while a ballerina pirouetted among the gravestones.
“Horse!” Benni suddenly shouted, as he clapped his hands together. “Why the hell don’t you say it?”
The little man did not move. He sighed. “You know what I am going to say, Benni.”
In fact, everyone else had already reached Horse’s conclusions, but all were delaying the self-disappointment.
“So why are you letting us concoct this foolishness?” Benni challenged his analyst. “What do I pay you for?”
Horse slowly turned from the window, but before he could speak, Nabbe tried to lighten the blow.<
br />
“I have an idea,” the Belgian offered. “Why don’t we just shoot Horse and get on with it?”
No one laughed. Horse shrugged, accepting his life’s sad lot. “Okay,” he said. “It stinks.”
“Of course it stinks!” Benni boomed, as if he had known it all along. “It cannot work. We would have to get a truck across at Figuig, and given the range, it would have to leave here now.”
“Correct,” said Horse.
“So why don’t we go in, split up, and hijack one on the ground?” Schneller suggested.
Nabbe hummed as he considered this.
“And if there is no vehicle traffic at that hour?” Horse posed. “If the Algerians are all snuggled around their televisions for a soccer match?”
“He’s right,” said Eytan, who had taken Benni’s place on the flank of the bed, leaning over his knees and pulling at the end of his short ponytail. “Klump has to think we are making the delivery, without our actually air-dropping a Land-Rover.”
“Yes,” said Benni. He placed his hands behind his back and walked to the glass doors, gazing out at the pool and the gardens. There were still so many preparations to be made, but this was the crux of the matter. Martina might not bring Ruth up until she actually saw the approaching vehicle. “Let’s scrap it and start again.”
Sadeen raised his head from the map. “Did someone say scrap?”
“Oo-ah,” Nabbe warned. “The engineer is thinking.”
Sadeen got up quickly from the floor. “Is there an ironworks in the Casbah?”
Eckstein raised his head. “It’s north of the Djemaa el Fna. Why?”
“Never you mind.” The sapper shouldered his small green ruck. “I think I’ve got it.”
“You’ll get lost,” Eckstein warned. “Pick up Mustaffa at the café.” Inside the walls of Marrakesh’s old city, a foreigner could not move without being assaulted by “guides.” You had to hire one or be badgered into immobility. “But tell us what’s up first.”
“Yes.” Benni turned hopefully from the window. “What do you have in mind?”
“You can forget this part.” Sadeen smiled as he made for the door. “I have solved it. Leave it to me and go on.”
Before anyone could question him further, he had trotted out of the room.
“Leebit do me angoahn.” Nabbe mimicked Sadeen’s Spanish slur.
“Hey,” Schneller growled. “Let him be. I’ve never heard him promise anything and not deliver.”
“Mr. Hearthstone?” Benni begged his partner’s opinion. There was still time to stop Sadeen.
Eckstein lifted his hands. “We’re all living in a bloody fool’s paradise.” His speech was still colored with the Briticisms of his Ethiopian cover. “Let the joker tinker.”
“All right,” said Benni, relieved to be unburdened of at least one problem. He turned to Nabbe, Schneller, and O’Donovan. “You three should get moving. Find your partners and work quickly. We meet at 1800 for review.” He looked the three men over. They had shed their mountain parkas, for the sun was strong in this desert oasis, but even in their colorful T-shirts, denims, and sneakers, they still looked to him like commandos on holiday. “I wish we had some women,” he muttered.
“Benni!” Schneller bucked his head back. “Du altes Schwein.”
“For cover, you idiot,” said Eytan.
“Well, perhaps we can pick up some Swedish blondes,” Nabbe offered enthusiastically.
“Don’t try it.” Benni wagged a finger. “You will think you are picking them, but they might be baiting you.” The Moroccan Sûreté was skilled in honey-trapping Westerners.
“Oui, mon colonel.” Nabbe saluted, then switched to Clouseau as he beckoned Schneller. “Follow me, Kato.”
Benni stopped them.
“Schneller, let Michael go first. You and Nabbe clear him for tails.” They tried to leave again. “And Michael,” Benni called, as O’Donovan stopped halfway out the door. “Only bottled water for you. And no fruit. Your stomach may not tolerate the microbes here.”
O’Donovan almost smiled. “Yes, Abba,” he said. His eyes and Benni’s met, their thoughts converging on the last time they had both heard Ruth utter that endearment. Baum broke the spell, waving the three men out with both hands.
Eckstein looked at his black Breitling and snapped up from the bed. “So where the hell is Didi?” he muttered. It was warm enough in Marrakesh that he had shed his leather flight jacket, and now he wore only his sleeveless NYU sweatshirt, black jeans, and the canvas boots. He walked over to a corner writing table and picked up Horse’s pad, reviewing the equipment list for the tenth time.
“Do not worry,” said Horse. “It is probably just traffic.” He welcomed the opportunity to buck someone up rather than shatter illusions.
“Are you sure he was able to close the deal?” Benni asked Eckstein. He poured himself his fourth cup of coffee from a room-service tray.
“Of course,” said Eytan. “Even if they decided to haggle, he would have just kept peeling off bills.”
Between Itzik Ben-Zion’s departure from Casablanca and the midnight rendezvous at the Café de France, Eckstein had not been idle. He had already recruited a proper team, but they could not be dropped onto the target with bedsheets and kite string. He could have had Lerner and Lapkin bring in the gear, but the risk of confiscation at the airport was too great. He had to acquire it on the ground.
Every country that has a military airborne unit finds itself hosting at least one civilian parachute club, for some veterans cannot kick the habit. At the Syndicat d’Initiative on Boulevard Mohammed V, a kindly woman informed the “Englishman” that such a club existed at the civilian strip at Tit Melil, though she had no idea if they were still active. Tit Melil was only ten kilometers southeast of Casablanca.
He did not bother to rent a car, because with time so short, he might have to ask directions en route, leaving a calling card each time he opened his mouth. So he hired one witness only, the Grand Taxi driver Abderrahim.
Abder was a fountain of information on many subjects, suggesting all sorts of alternatives should “Anthony” fail in his quest at Tit Melil. Although Eckstein was a detached and quiet man, one of his assets as an intelligence officer was the ability to metamorphose his somber appearance. He could mobilize a disarming smile and carefree tone, and by the time Abder had urged his coughing green Mercedes onto the palm-lined thoroughfare of Moulay Ismael, Eckstein had already been invited to his sister’s wedding.
They joked about women in French, while Abder pounded on the strip of Persian carpet that covered his dashboard and honked at sputtering mopeds and horse-drawn carts. They soon turned off onto a long private road and parked before a two-story white stucco building. Abder got out of the car, reached back in for a red pillow, and went to take a nap under the trees.
Eytan trotted up the concrete steps to the second floor, passing beneath a black propeller mounted over a doorway. Inside the Aeroclub, there was a bar immediately to the left, and his hopes rose when he saw a framed poster of a military parachutist.
“Bonjour, mon ami.” He greeted the barman, who was wiping a coffee glass.
“Bonjour.”
“Où est le club des parachutistes?”
The barman smiled, but it was more an expression of pity. “Là-bas.” He pointed.
Eytan strode along a catwalk outside the building, past a modest control tower atop silver girders. The tarmac strip, about a thousand meters long, rested between flat plains of farm furrows. You could bring in a C-47 here, but there were only two Cessna 150s parked on the apron. The orange wind sock stood stiff and horizontal. He walked down a flight of stairs to a large open hangar with a beautifully painted sign that bore a winged crest and the words Aero-Club Royal De Casa Blanca.
Three men sat playing cards just inside the hangar.
“Hello, mates.” Eytan flashed his smile as he decided on English. People generally assume that if you are linguistically limited, you are also
probably harmless.
“Allo,” replied the youngest of the three. Like most Moroccan men, he sported a slim black mustache. He was wearing a shiny olive flight jacket.
“Could you tell me where the parachute club is?”
The young man rose from his chair, and Eytan followed him back out into the sunlight.
“It is there.” The man pointed to a shuttered hangar next door with a small black plaque mounted beside the closure. Eytan squinted. The parachute club was “Royal” as well. “But we are closed.”
That bit of news was a blow, but the use of the pronoun was a plus.
“Oh?” said Eytan. “Too windy?”
“Non, mon ami.” The man laughed. “Too poor. Our aeroplane is broken.”
“Bloody pity,” Eytan commiserated, although he did not need a plane. That would be Nimrodi’s problem.
“Are you a parachutiste?” the man asked, as he donned a pair of Ray•Bans.
“Sometimes.” Eytan stuck out a hand. “Anthony Hearthstone.”
“Hakim Azziz.” He had a strong, cool grip.
Eytan opened one pocket of his flight jacket and handed Hakim a business card. It was printed with generic gold parachute wings, the words Airborne Operations Group, and a London address and telephone. The phone was physically located in an import-export office in the West End, but it automatically forwarded calls to an answering machine and fax in Jerusalem.
“My mates are having a meet down in Beni Mellal next week,” Eytan said. “We were hoping to rent some gear. Some of us are coming a long way.”
“Rent?” Hakim’s eyebrows lifted above his sunglasses. He understood the word, but the concept was an anomaly to skydivers.
“Well, you know.” Eytan shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. “The boys are getting a bit old and lazy.”
Hakim laughed. He began to walk toward the hangar, fishing in his trouser pocket for keys. “We do have some parachutes,” he said as Eytan eagerly followed along. “But no plane, so no parachutism. I could not lend the equipment. The members are not here.”
The Nylon Hand of God Page 49