Spy Dance

by Allan Topol

  “And you’ve provided me with those five numbers as well as the codes to deactivate the defensive system in the royal palace?”

  David took a deep breath. The moment of truth had come.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “No. I haven’t.”

  She pounded her fist on the desk. “That was our deal.”

  “I’ve had second thoughts. I might never see my money if I give you the codes now. Instead, I’ll fly to Saudi Arabia forty-eight hours before the attack with your people. I’ll give you the three codes then, assuming that Daphna has been released.”

  As she stared at him, astonished by his unmitigated nerve, Victor chimed in. “Leave me alone with him and a couple of your bodyguards for an hour. I promise you, he’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  “And I promise you I won’t. The CIA taught me how to deal with torture.” He shrugged. “Besides, you know my story as well as I do. Since my wife’s death last year, I have nothing to live for. Except now you’d be giving me a purpose. To deprive your people of the prize you want so dearly. That’s worth dying for.”

  “Well, why don’t we test that thesis?” Victor said, rising to his feet. “Or why don’t we bring Daphna here, and you can watch her be tortured?”

  Madam Blanc waved him down.

  “I’ve read enough profiles of our friend here to know that we won’t break him, and the girl’s just his stepdaughter.” What she didn’t add was that, despite twenty-four hours of torture at the hands of the Nazis and a young daughter’s screams, her own mother had never divulged a single bit of information. In view of that experience, she had read a great deal about torture. With some people it just didn’t work. David had all of the characteristics of someone who wouldn’t crack.

  She looked at him coldly. “You’d better be in front of the Bristol at ten p.m. on October 4. We’ll fly you out to Saudi Arabia then.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Victor broke in. “Why not have him stay in Paris until then? We’ll be able to watch him.”

  David had an answer ready. “It’s the Jewish New Year next week. Businesspeople who are abroad come home for the holidays. I had enough hard questions to answer when I returned with my face all scratched and bruised the last time. If I don’t make it home, they’ll get suspicious. The kibbutz security director will make calls to the Mossad.” He looked at Madame Blanc. “You know I’m right. Don’t you?” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Besides, I’ve already proven my value as a partner. If it weren’t for me, your people would never had known about the system to blow up the oil fields.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” Victor snapped. “I want you to remain in Paris because I want to make sure you’re here on the 4th.”

  “You’re forgetting that I have a huge financial incentive. Try eight million dollars.”

  “But you already have...”

  Madame Blanc had heard enough. “Leave him alone, Victor. He’s done what I wanted so far. Let him do it his way.”

  She turned to David. “Be in front of the Bristol at ten p.m. on October 4. Victor’s driver, Rolland, will pick you up then. You’ll fly out to Saudi Arabia with my people that night. We’ll keep you there as long as we need you.”

  He was tempted to ask, And then what? But he knew the answer, which she would never tell him: Then we’ll kill you, of course.

  * * *

  Sagit was waiting for David at Charles De Gaulle Airport in the boarding area for El Al flight 016 from Paris to Tel Aviv. As soon as she saw David, she pulled him off into a deserted corner.

  “I heard from the embassy in Paris. One of the phone numbers that appears frequently on the calls in and out of Victor Foch’s office is a house outside of Grasse. It’s a property owned by a company that’s a sub of a sub of PDF. A large house surrounded by a high stone wall.”

  David felt a surge of excitement. “Great, let’s get her out.”

  She knew this would be his reaction. She had been dreading the battle with him that was coming. But calmly and professionally, she responded, “We have two people in the area watching the house. Even with binoculars, because of the wall they can’t tell whether anybody’s occupying it.”

  “Daphna has to be there,” he said. “They should storm the house and get her out.”

  “We don’t even know if she’s there,” she said, raising her voice and sharpening her tone.

  “Then we’ll apologize to the owners and go away.”

  “That’s not an option.”

  “What are you saying?” He sounded exasperated.

  She moved in close to him, standing toe to toe. “I spoke to Moshe in Jerusalem. He was very explicit, to put it mildly. His command is that we don’t do anything illegal on French territory. He’s already called his counterpart in the French secret service to get their help.”

  “Oh, for Christ sake,” David said. “That won’t do us a bit of good.”

  “Don’t shout at me,” she snapped back. “You’re not the director. From you, I don’t have to take it. Besides, we already formulated a plan to go in and get Daphna out before I spoke to Moshe. We even had one of our people, Shimon in Marseilles, preparing a disguise and false papers to get her out of the country. But Moshe is the boss, and I can understand where he’s coming from. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

  David was red in the face. The veins were pulsing in his neck. “Not on your life. I’m going down to Grasse. I’ll go in myself and get her out.”

  “You can’t. You don’t know where the house is.”

  He stared hard at her. “You’re going to tell me.”

  “Yeah,” she said, locking eyes with him, refusing to bend, “so you can get yourself killed and Daphna as well? No, David, I did it your way after the bakery in Paris. This time we’re doing it my way. You’re getting on this plane to Tel Aviv. I’m staying in France to direct our operations.”

  He clenched his teeth and slowly shook his head. “You can do whatever you want, but no way am I leaving France until I know she’s safe.”

  She sucked in her breath, trying to decide how to respond. At that moment, her cell phone rang. David watched her face freeze with tension as she listened carefully.

  “I understand,” she said grimly... KMB310... Yes... You’re both okay, then? Get another car as soon as you can and comb the area.”

  She turned off the phone and looked at him anxiously. “They’re moving her. Our people tried to follow, but a truck blocked the road and then smashed into their car to take them out of the game.”

  David pounded his right fist into the palm of his other hand. “Big surprise. After Moshe’s call, somebody in the French government tipped off Madame Blanc. The rest was predictable. So what are you doing now?”

  “We have a license plate number for the car they’re using to move Daphna. I have to call Moshe and report to him. Then I’ll stay right here until we get some more information.”

  * * *

  Daphna was sandwiched in the back of a gray turbo diesel Mercedes—license plate number KMB310—between a tall, thin man with a scar on his cheek and the matronly Mary, who had been in charge of Daphna’s confinement at the house in Grasse. Up front there was only the driver, who pushed the car fast across roads still illuminated by the rapidly setting sun. Daphna tried to take stock of her situation.

  Before they had left the house, she had overheard much of Mary’s end of a phone conversation through a crack in her bedroom door. They had decided hastily to move her to a boat that was docked in St. Tropez, and from there to get on to the open sea. Mary had rejected the idea of drugging Daphna for fear that would draw greater attention when they moved her to the boat, and because she was confident they could keep “the girl, who’s been a mouse, under control during the move.”

  As the car raced down the steep, winding road from the hills to St. Tropez, Daphna knew that she had to find a way to escape before they got her on that boat. Once she was on the boa
t, she was as good as dead.

  It was twilight as they made their way slowly in the now heavy traffic toward the dock in the heart of St. Tropez. Pedestrians, many of them carrying shopping bags from the smart boutiques, crowded the narrow cobblestone streets as the gray Mercedes wove its way through. At the dock area, it could have been noon. Hundreds of bright lights, glistening off the water, illuminated the area. The cafés that faced the water were filled with tourists, and half a dozen huge yachts sat in their berths.

  Daphna saw a policeman directing traffic and looked at him hopefully. As if reading her mind, Scarface said, “When we park, we’re going to walk about fifty yards to the boat. You’ll walk between me and Mary. I’ll have my left arm around your shoulder, as if we’re lovers. In my right hand I’ll have a gun with a silencer in my jacket pocket pointed at your side. If you try to scream or do anything to cause a commotion, I’ll shoot, and you’ll be dead.”

  Daphna nodded, looking frightened, but her brain was churning. In her air force training they had covered scenarios like this. What to do when enemy soldiers or terrorists capture an unarmed pilot. It was long ago, so long ago. She forced her mind to think, to remember.

  The car ground to a halt.

  “Okay, bitch, out!” Scarface barked as he opened the door.

  Mary came around the car and, like a couple of bookends, they moved close to Daphna. They began walking directly toward a huge yacht called the Predator about fifty yards away. Daphna could feel Scarface’s arm around her shoulder and his awful garlicky breath as he kept his face close to hers. He held the gun in tight against her rib cage. No one on the street was paying any attention to them.

  In training, she suddenly recalled, they had said, “Never believe you don’t have a weapon. Your body has powerful weapons. Use them.”

  One chance is all I’ll get, she thought. I better not waste it. Carefully she moved her right arm in close to her body. Then with all the force she could muster, she drove her elbow into his ribs. She could feel bone cracking, and she jabbed deeper to bruise his spleen.

  A jolt of excruciating pain shot through Scarface’s body. He let go of the gun and dropped to his knees. Mary had no time to react, for Daphna had already bolted toward the old stone citadel. She saw a narrow cobblestone street on the right running up the hill, and she dashed up the street, threading her way among tourists wandering along. She glanced over her shoulder. Scarface had recovered. He was running with a limp, in obvious pain, followed by Mary and the driver of the gray Mercedes. Daphna turned left, then right and then left again, hoping to lose them, but she quickly realized the folly of that. There were so few streets in the old city, and with three of them following her, sooner or later they would track her down.

  Up ahead, she saw a small four-story hotel called the Yacca. She darted inside the front door and toward the bar in back. The clerk behind the reception desk was too busy on his computer to notice her. Just before the bar, she spotted a sign that said toilette and pointed up one flight of stairs. She took refuge in the restroom and caught her breath. This was safer than being out on the streets, but how long could she stay here? Scarface would undoubtedly try all the public facilities in the few hotels in the area.

  She walked out of the rest room and snuck up the stairs, glancing down the corridor on each floor for an open room in which she could hide. On the top floor she saw a chambermaid come out of one room and go into the adjacent room midway down the deserted corridor. Between the two rooms the chambermaid had parked a cart of supplies with a pass key dangling from a hook on the cart. Daphna tiptoed down the corridor, grabbed the pass key and unlocked room 404, where the maid had just been. In an instant she returned the key to the cart and slipped into room 404. It was dark, and she stood at the door and held her breath, hoping the room was empty. When she didn’t hear any sounds, no people asleep and breathing, she turned on a light and looked around. The room was obviously occupied, but the people were out—no doubt for dinner. It was still early evening. They might not be back for a while.

  She snatched the phone from the cradle and dialed Sagit’s cell phone, hoping she could get her. Miraculously, Sagit answered on the first ring.

  “It’s Daphna,” she stammered with relief.

  “Where are you?”

  “I escaped.”

  “Wonderful.” Sagit wanted to conceal the incredible stress she had been feeling for the last couple of hours, to avoid alarming Daphna any more than necessary. But her voice was still cracking with tension. “Where are you?”

  “In a small hotel in St. Tropez called Yacca. They’re searching for me outside. I managed to get into the room of one of the hotel guests. They’re not here right now.”

  Sagit had gained control of her emotions. “That’s great,” she said, sounding steady and reassuring.

  “But I don’t know what to do now.”

  There was a pause while Sagit’s mind raced quickly, formulating a plan.

  “Are you still there?” Daphna asked nervously.

  “I’m thinking.”

  On the verge of panic, Daphna said, “Please tell me what to do. Please.”

  “Okay, what’s the room number?”

  “404.”

  “Whose room is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look around. You’ll find something that tells you.”

  Daphna saw a copy of the American edition of Time magazine on a table. A subscription label read “Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin V. Cohen,” with a New York City address.

  She told that to Sagit, who said, “Listen carefully. I’m going to arrange for somebody to come and get you as soon as possible. His name’s Shimon, and the pass code will be ‘water.’ He’ll have a man’s disguise for you and false papers. He’ll get you out of the country, but you have to do exactly what he says. Is that clear?”

  “Yes. Yes,” she said anxiously, “but how soon will he be here?”

  “Two hours. Depending on traffic,” Sagit said, sounding confident and in control. She desperately wanted to allay the young woman’s anxiety. He has to come from Marseilles. You must stay in room 404 until he calls you.”

  Daphna’s spirits, which had rose, now collapsed. “That’s a long time. What if the Cohens come back before Shimon gets here? What do I do then?”

  “You’re smart and resourceful, Daphna. You managed to escape from your abductors. I think you’ll figure how to handle a couple of tourists from New York. Just don’t leave the room.”

  As Daphna put the phone down, she fought off a tide of despair and terror. Sagit was right. She had been smart and resourceful. If she could handle Scarface, she could handle the Cohens. She began searching their suitcases, half-unpacked, and the dresser drawers, looking for a weapon and some rope to tie them up if they returned before Shimon came. In one of the suitcases, she found a hair dryer which she could use as a weapon. She decided that Mr. Cohen’s shirts with long sleeves would suffice to tie them up. As she searched the bureau drawer for shirts, she came across the couple’s American passports. Suddenly, a different idea began taking shape in her mind. She leafed through Mr. Cohen’s passport first. It had been issued eight years ago. In those eight years, he had made seven trips to Israel. Mrs. Cohen had been with him on five of those trips.

  With her plan formulated, she turned off the room lights and sat down on the floor of the closet. In her hand she held the hair dryer, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.

  About an hour later, she heard the sound of a key being turned. She held her breath and gripped the hair dryer hard. Through a crack in the closet door, she saw the outside hall light first. Then the room light went on. Mr. and Mrs. Cohen were in their late sixties, Daphna guessed. She was a large rotund woman with freshly coifed gray hair piled high on her head. He was portly, with wire-framed glasses, and slightly shorter than his wife. She doubted that either of them ever did any exercise. If she had to deal with them physically, it would be no problem.

  She waited u
ntil they had closed the door and were well inside the room before she jumped out of the closet and confronted them with the hair dryer in her hand. She suddenly realized how frightening she must have looked. She was filthy from running, her blond hair was wild, and she had a desperate look in her eyes. The Cohens were scared half to death and too terrified to scream. The first words out of her mouth were crucial, she realized. So she stared at them and said, “I want you to do something to help the government of Israel.”

  By now the Cohens had recovered from their initial fright, and Mrs. Cohen screamed, “You get out of our room right now, or I’m calling the front desk.”

  “Wait a minute, Evelyn,” her husband said. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

  “Are you crazy, Ben? She’s here to rob and kill us.”

  Ben Cohen was looking at the hair dryer in Daphna’s hand. “Go over to the bed next to the phone,” he said to his wife, “but don’t pick it up. We’ll listen to what she has to say. If we don’t like it, you call the front desk.”

  Daphna didn’t like the arrangement, but she was willing to gamble on persuading Ben Cohen. Meantime, he moved himself between Daphna and his wife. “Okay, young lady,” he said, “now tell me what you want us to do for the government of Israel.”

  “Do you understand Hebrew?” she asked.

  “Only a few words.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk in English. But it’s complicated and very difficult for me to explain. I’m an Israeli student at school in Paris. I was kidnapped by terrorists, but I escaped before they got me on a boat. Now they’re looking for me on the streets outside. But I hid in your room. Soon an Israeli will come here to take me home.”

  Dumbfounded, Ben Cohen asked, “Do you have any identification?” “Nothing. The terrorist took it all. I live in kibbutz Bet Mordechai north of Haifa. Ask me about Israel. I’ll tell you.”

  Evelyn Cohen said, “this is all preposterous. There are plenty of Israeli criminals. I’m calling the front desk, Ben.”