by Gar Wilson
The indicator light above the elevator switched on. Goldblum noticed the lift was rising from the tenth floor. Most of the personnel authorized to be in the restricted sixteenth-floor area came directly from the lobby, so the lieutenant was surprised when the elevator stopped at his station.
The doors opened with an electrical hum and two men dressed in hospital whites rolled a metal cart out of the elevator. Goldblum stared suspiciously at the sheet that covered an obscure shape on the top shelf of the cart.
"Boker tov, Lieutenant," one of the orderlies greeted.
"Shalom," Goldblum replied without enthusiasm as he rose from his desk. "Are you both authorized in this area?"
"Yes we are, sir," the same orderly said. "Dr. Ravitch sent us to change the prime minister's bed sheets and the bedpan."
"I was not notified about this," Goldblum said, scanning over their ID badges.
Both orderlies were small, swarthy men with olive complexions. Probably Arabs, Goldblum thought.
The numerals on the badges matched the code numbers for two orderlies named Hunada and Khalil. The photos were smudged, but they seemed to resemble the pair. The lieutenant relaxed a bit and placed the clipboard on the desk beside his Uzi as he approached the pair.
"Will you remove the sheet, buvaka sha?" he asked, but his voice carried a tone of authority that made it clear he was not making a request.
"Of course, Lieutenant." The Arab pulled back the sheet.
Goldblum looked down at several bedpans, a stack of neatly folded towels and a Russian PPSH-41 submachine gun.
"Shit," Goldblum gasped as he made a desperate grab for the Eagle pistol in his shoulder holster.
He was not fast enough. One of the orderlies grabbed Goldblum's wrist, preventing him from drawing the gun. The Arab's other hand produced a dagger from under his white jacket. He punched the double-edged blade into Goldblum's solar plexus, driving the steel point up into his heart.
Sharp burning pain filled Lieutenant Goldblum's chest as he stared into the face of his murderer. The Arab's eyes twinkled and a smile of satisfaction burst across his dark features. Yet his pleasure was not sadistic as he whispered gently in Hebrew.
"The pain will be brief."
It was. Goldblum was dead before he slumped to the tile floor.
The two paratroopers stationed in front of room twenty-six immediately unslung their Uzi subguns. However, the other Arab had already gathered up the PPS and aimed it at the soldiers. The Soviet-made chatterbox sprayed 7.62mm slugs into the guards.
Bullets ripped through flesh and muscle, mashing vital organs. Blood soaked fatigue shirts as the Israeli commandos tumbled to the floor. Their lifeless bodies rolled across the corridor, propelled by more full-auto projectiles. The machine gunner continued to fire the PPS as he approached the slain Israelis.
The other Arab left his knife buried in Goldblum's chest and took the dead lieutenant's Uzi from the field desk. His partner exhausted the ammunition from his PPS and reached under his jacket for a fresh magazine.
Neither man spoke, for they knew what to do next. The stench of cordite filled their nostrils, and strands of gray gun smoke drifted through the hallway. Their ears rang and their skulls throbbed painfully from the effects of gunfire within a confined area.
Their plan of action was simple and brutally direct.
They rushed to room twenty-six and kicked in the door. Inside, a lone figure lay in a bed surrounded by a transparent plastic veil.
"Allah akbar," they cried as they aimed their weapons at the figure.
Twin streams of full-auto missiles tore through the flimsy oxygen tent. Bullets struck the motionless figure on the bed, smashing into its torso and shattering its skull.
They were still firing at the helpless figure when a trio of Israeli Paratroopers burst into the corridor from the emergency stairwell.
The soldiers opened fire. Nine-millimeter lead hornets with copper jackets struck the Arab gunmen. The impact of the Uzi rounds sent one of the killers sprawling across the floor. His PPS flew from his grasp, his left arm dangled from a bullet-shredded shoulder.
The other Arab turned his gun on the paratroopers. He received several 9mm slugs in the chest before he could trigger the weapon. His body was hurtled backward. He crashed to the floor in a lifeless, bloodied heap.
"Hold your fire," Captain Rosen ordered as he advanced toward the wounded Arab.
The smoking muzzles of their submachine guns pointed at the injured man, the paratroopers cautiously approached. The Arab gazed up at them, his face splattered with blood as the severed brachial artery in his ravaged shoulder continued to pump out his life fluids. Incredibly, the man smiled at his captors.
"Asha-du Allah ilaha ilia Allah," the Arab declared, drawing a dagger from his belt.
"Drop it," Rosen ordered.
The assassin ignored him and thrust the knife under his- own chin. The point of the blade stabbed through the soft flesh under his jawbone. A hard shove sent it upward, penetrating the roof of his mouth, piercing the brain.
"God of our fathers," Captain Rosen whispered as he watched the Arab's body twitch in death.
"What did he say before he killed himself?" one of the commandos who did not understand Arabic inquired.
"An Islamic proverb," Rosen answered. "'I witness that there is no God but Allah.' "
"Captain," a voice called from the stairs.
Rosen turned to see a tall figure approaching. Dressed in a bush shirt and khaki trousers, he wore no insignia of rank, but Rosen recognized him. The man had curly black hair, graying at the temples, and a vivid white scar on his left cheek.
"Major Eytan," Rosen greeted. "We almost had a prisoner, but he chose to take his own life."
"Not until he and his comrade managed to kill three of our people," Eytan said bitterly.
Eytan entered room number twenty-six and gazed down at the tattered remains of the oxygen tent and the bullet-shattered body in the bed. He shook his head grimly.
"They shouldn't have been able to get this far, Captain," he stated.
"We'll find out how they did it, Major," Rosen assured him.
"And find out who they were," Eytan snapped. "By God, whoever sent them will pay dearly for this."
He stepped forward and seized the oxygen tent, ripping it apart with an angry tug. Bits of flesh-colored plastic were scattered over the bed sheets. The figure's head lay beside its body. A glass eye bulged from its cracked socket, all that remained of the mannequin's features.
"The dummy was to serve as a decoy, Major," Captain Rosen remarked. "It succeeded to a degree."
"They shouldn't have gotten this far," Eytan repeated. "And the next time they'll make certain the real prime minister is the target."
"Maybe there won't be a next time," Rosen said.
"There will always be a next time, my young friend," Eytan said with a sigh.
3
Yakov Katzenelenbogen felt strangely uncomfortable as he entered the office. Perhaps he felt odd because he was wearing a uniform. It was the first time in five years he had donned his military garments, complete with campaign ribbons and medals won for valor. Pinned to his beret was the triple-fig-leaf emblem of a full colonel in the Israeli armed forces.
Perhaps he felt uneasy having been summoned into the office of the deputy director of the Central Institute for Intelligence and Special Missions — better known as Mossad.
But Katz was no stranger to the deputy director's office. The interior had changed over the years.
The face behind the desk was also different. Katz did not recognize the diminutive, dour, bald man who examined him. He glanced at the other two men who rose from their plastic scoopbacked chairs to face him.
"I've heard a good deal about you, Colonel Katzenelenbogen," the deputy director said. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last."
"Thank you, Director Geller," Katz replied, although he realized the little man was being less than sincere.
Moshe Gel
ler seemed disappointed when he saw Katz. Yakov could easily be mistaken for a college professor. He was in his mid-fifties, with iron-gray hair and a rather paunchy midsection. His face was dominated by gentle blue eyes that seemed to radiate patience and wisdom.
Only his right arm which had been amputated at the elbow, suggested he may have had any combat experience. Katz made no effort to conceal his handicap; in fact, he had emphasized it by folding up the empty sleeve and pinning it.
"I don't believe you've met these other gentlemen, Colonel," Geller said. "Lieutenant Colonel Ezra Zavarj of the Sheruth Modin and Major Uri Eytan from Mossad Special Missions Department."
Katz realized something important was happening. Clandestine organizations in every country seemed to form a rivalry with one another. That was true of the CIA and the FBI in the United States, the BND and the GFV in West Germany and even the Soviet KGB and the GRU. Israel was no exception. For military intelligence and Mossad to be working together, they had to be up against something big.
Yakov extended his left arm to shake hands with the two men. Zavarj was a wiry man with silver hair and a ready smile. Eytan was more somber. His eyes lingered on Katz's abbreviated right arm.
"I lost it in the Six Day War," Yakov told him. "I was lucky, many lost their lives." He did not mention that his son had been one of the casualties of that conflict.
"The Six Day War was a very long time ago, Colonel," Eytan mused.
"Major," Geller began sternly, "Colonel Katzenelenbogen has been actively involved in warfare, espionage and antiterrorism since he was a teenager. He was in Europe with the Resistance fighters against the Nazis. He served in the Haganah against the British when Israel was still fighting for independence and continued with Mossad afterward. Technically, he has retired from our organization, but he has stayed in contact with us over the years and we've exchanged information in the past. In fact, you've received a fair amount of classified intelligence from this office, haven't you, Colonel?"
"And what have you done with that information, Colonel?" Eytan asked suspiciously.
"I've used it wisely," Katz replied.
"Colonel Katzenelenbogen has a fine record," Geller assured the others.
"How is it that you happen to be in Israel at this time, Colonel?" Eytan asked bluntly.
"I'm here to do some research for a book," Katz answered. "I'm working on a volume about Middle Eastern archaeology. I have a degree in that science, and I've written a good deal about it in the magazine Archaeological Quarterly."
"Not a terribly patriotic reason to be in our country," the major remarked.
"I'm sure you'll be even less pleased to know I have a dual citizenship for Israel and France. And over the past few years I've spent more time in Europe and the United States than in the Middle East. As a matter of fact, I'm thinking of giving up my French citizenship and becoming a U.S. citizen. I've never been given the third degree in America like I'm getting from you people right now."
"Colonel," Geller began in an apologetic tone.
"Let me finish," Katz insisted. "When I do return to the Middle East, it has usually been in connection with various international import-export businesses. I serve as a go-between for many of them because I have many connections in the Middle East and I speak Hebrew, Arabic, French, Russian, German and English, which allows me to communicate with virtually everyone I'm apt to do business with short of Kurdish street merchants."
"You've done business with Arabs?" Kavarj asked.
"Saudis and Egyptians mostly," Katz replied. "What's wrong with that?"
"You don't think much of being Jewish, do you, Colonel?" the major spat, glaring at him.
"I am a Jew," Katz stated. "But that doesn't mean I have to limit my business associates and personal friendships only to fellow Jews. There are some Jews I don't much care for, Major. For example, I'm not very fond of you and your integrity quiz."
"Colonel," Geller sighed. "No one questions your loyalty, but please spare us this charade. We're well aware that your business trips are a cover for other activities. You've hardly retired from the world of espionage. In fact, you've been doing quite a bit of work for the Americans. Some sort of special antiterrorist unit, I believe?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that in detail," Katz stated.
Yakov Katzenelenbogen was in fact the unit commander of Phoenix Force, the world's top team of antiterrorists.
Phoenix Force had been formed by the legendary crime fighter Mack Bolan, sometimes called The Executioner. After his one-man war against the Mafia, Bolan, working for the U.S. president under the name of Colonel John Phoenix, waged a war against terrorism. To help him in his battle against international barbarians, he had personally selected five men — the best antiterrorist experts the free world had to offer — to serve as a new American foreign legion, a dynamite team of terrorist beaters.
Phoenix Force had lived up to all expectations. The five-man army had succeeded in ten incredible missions against some of the most insidious terrorist organizations and conspiracies in the . shadowy history of evil. However, the situation at Bolan's Stony Man operations had changed drastically.
A devastating series of events had turned Bolan into a fugitive, wanted by virtually every intelligence network and law-enforcement agency throughout the world. The Executioner was once again a renegade on the lam, pitted against impossible odds.
There had been some danger that Phoenix Force would be disbanded after Bolan fell out of favor with the president. However, Hal Brognola, the Fed who had acted as the go-between for the White House and Stony Man, was officially in charge of Phoenix Force operations, and he convinced all concerned that Phoenix must continue to fly. The plug could still be pulled if the president changed his mind — a fact that worried Katz and his four teammates.
"I won't ask you to give away any information about your less-public activities," Geller assured Katz. "It doesn't concern us at this time. The fact is, you are an Israeli and you happen to be in the country right now. We may well need your expertise."
"I'm listening."
"Early this morning," the deputy director said, "there was an attempt to assassinate the prime minister. Major Eytan was stationed at the hospital when it occurred."
"Two men entered the restricted area," the major explained. "They wore ID badges taken from a pair of orderlies who were later found dead in a dumpster, their throats cut."
"Any information about the assassins?" Katz asked.
"They were both Egyptians," Zavarj replied grimly.
"Egyptians?" Katz said, frowning. "Are you certain they weren't carrying forged identification?"
"We're sure," Eytan confirmed. "Their passports are genuine. We checked names, fingerprints and dental files. They were both members of the United Arab Republic's Ground Forces."
"You're not suggesting this was an act of war by Egypt against Israel?" Katz inquired.
"Those two killers were Egyptian soldiers, not PLO terrorists," Geller said. "Perhaps President Mubarak has been making some covert agreements with Arafat or Khaddafi."
"Khaddafi?" Yakov shook his head. "That's absurd. Egypt has no more love for that Libyan lunatic than we do. Mubarak has done nothing to deserve such accusations. Since he became president of Egypt after the assassination of Anwar Sadat, Mubarak has upheld the peace treaty with Israel."
"The Egyptians are Arabs," Eytan said. "Don't forget that."
"I seem to recall it was President Sadat who first had the courage to come to Israel and offer to make peace," Katz snapped.
"I'm surprised you trust the Egyptians," Zavarj mused. "I wouldn't think you'd forget the Six Day War."
"I haven't," Katz assured him. "I haven't forgotten the Nazis, either, but I don't condemn West Germany for what Hitler did. Bitterness and hatred has been the scourge of the Middle East. All too often, Jews have been as guilty of this as the Arabs."
"Yesterday's enemies can become today's friends," Geller remarked. "But we know that e
veryone who claims friendship does not always speak the truth. We have to be certain whether the two Egyptian killers were just fanatics or if they were sent by their government."
He turned to Katz. "You have more experience in dealing with terrorism than anyone in this room. For this reason, Mossad wants to put you in charge of a committee of advisers to investigate this incident."
"Committee of advisers?" Katz said, laughing. "That's nonsense. I've never been a paper pusher and I'm too old to start. Why don't you allow me to handle this in the manner I am accustomed to?"
"What do you have in mind, Colonel?"
"First of all," Katz began, "the assassination attempt was done by terrorists."
"How can you be sure?" Zavarj demanded.
"Because I know how the bastards operate," Katz insisted. "The Egyptians aren't stupid. They wouldn't have sent someone we could check so easily and trace the assassination to them if they were responsible. Someone is trying to set Israel and Egypt at each other's throats."
"Can you prove this?" Geller asked.
"If I have the right men to help me."
"All right," Geller decided, after some thought. "We'll let you try it your way. Major Eytan will help you select the men you'll need."
"I already know who I want to work with," Katz informed him. "I'll contact them as quickly as possible and have them fly to Israel immediately."
"You're getting foreigners instead of using Israeli commandos?" Eytan asked with surprise.
"But we've got the best antiterrorist section in the world," Zavarj insisted.
"They're very good," Yakov agreed. "But I want the very best. The four men I'm going to send for are exactly that. I stake my life on their ability."
"More than your life is at stake, Colonel," Geller told him. "The State of Israel may be in jeopardy."
"The state of the world..." Katz added grimly.
4
"I hate mucking about without knowing what the hell I'm doing," David McCarter muttered as he sullenly stared out the window of the Boeing 747.