by Gregg Loomis
But why?
As far as he knew, a passport violation would have been handled by Her Majesty's immigration service, not police. So there must be another reason, one he was fairly certain was not going to make him a happier man.
He got off at Picadilly and walked over to Regent Street and paused to inspect the equestrian stature of William of Orange dressed as Caesar. Or in drag. The thing always made him smile when he envisioned some American politician similarly represented. They tended to straddle issues, not horses.
As he surveyed the sculpture, he looked for the surveillance camera, finally spotting it almost hidden by the pediment of what he guessed was a Victorian's idea of a Greek Revival facade. He picked up a newspaper from a nearby kiosk and pretended to read so that the paper was between his face and the cameras as he circled the block.
Although he was fairly certain he was alone, he stopped long enough to use a shop window as a mirror to make sure.
Then he crossed over to 47 Jermyn Street and stood before an unmarked door beside which were a column of names, each above a bell button. Below was a speaker.
The odds were that, sooner or later, at least one thing would go his way today, and it did. Nellie was still in business.
During his years with the Agency, Lang had an all-too-brief assignment to the London Station. Nellie had been carried on the payroll as a psychological therapist.
Her actual job was slightly less academic if greatly more successful in aligning psyches along the right track. She ran a stable of call girls.
When a defector from one of the Eastern European workers' paradises made it safely from behind the Iron Curtain, he usually wanted three things immediately: a woman, decent whiskey, and American cigarettes.
Nellie could provide all three.
On more than one occasion it had been Lang's job to. go to Nellie's place, select a woman, and bring her back to whatever safe house was serving as a debriefing center at the time. Nellie had often chided him for not wanting to sample the merchandise, even tempting him with an occasional freebie.
"I'll just look and not touch," had been his constant refrain. He had not wanted to offend such a valuable asset by explaining that he had a strong aversion to the potential health problems just then beginning to enter the public domain: AIDS and herpes had taken the place of the generic clap that would succumb to two or three shots of penicillin. Lang was not about to take a chance of having to try to convince Dawn, his then-fiancée, that the Agency's toilet seats were infected.
Plus, should the shit ever hit the congressional fan, using his employment to get freebies from a brothel keeper would be regarded with great disapproval.
Still, he and Nellie had maintained a friendship, one she had renewed a couple of years before, when, as now, Lang needed a friend not stored in any law enforcement records.
He pushed the buzzer.
His felt a slight chill begin to creep up his neck when there was no response. Then he realized Nellie and most of her crew were probably just now beginning to stir. Their working day would not begin for an hour or two yet.
The third try produced a drowsy, "'Oos there?"
Lang looked around, reluctant to speak his name aloud. Tell Nellie the guy who just looks is back."
He was fairly certain the comment would be assumed to be an announcement of some sexual perversion by the woman on the other end, but he was rewarded by a voice he recognized.
"Lang, you have come back! Perhaps now ...?"
"Just buzz me in, Nellie."
There was a click and Lang opened the door.
At the top of a staircase stood a woman he knew was well past fifty. But she didn't look a day beyond thirty. Her profile was clean, unblurred by the sags and wrinkles time inflicted, a testament to the plastic surgeon in Switzerland she regularly visited. Her eyes still had the slight Asian slant of the Eastern European, perhaps the only clue that she had come to London as Neleska Dwvorsik, wife of a Hungarian defector whom she soon dumped for the oldest of capitalistic enterprises.
As he reached the top, he was standing in what could have been the lobby of a modestly priced hotel. Sofas and chairs were scattered about, most in front of TV sets. What wouldn't be seen in public accommodations was the group of young women lounging about in various states of undress. Of every race and most nationalities, they paid little attention to Lang, even though most customers never came here; this was home base for work all over the city.
Nellie embraced Lang with a strength surprising for her size, and wet lips touched his cheek. "You have decided it is time to quit just looking, Lang? We even have an American girl or two, but I'd recommend one just arrived from Hong Kong."
Lang shook his head slowly, as though in regret. "Not this time, Nellie. Can you put me up for a couple of days?"
She laughed evilly, taking his hand and leading him farther into the room." 'Put you up'? What is this 'put up'? Is something my girls can do in bed?"
"No, Nellie. As inviting as the prospect might be, I need to, er, hide out for a day or two."
"The place is yours, Lang. If you want anything, or any person, ask."
FORTY-EIGHT
Dizengoff
Tel Aviv
The Next Morning
Theli Yent was no beautician, even though she arrived every morning (except Shabbat, of course) at the same beauty parlor in the Dizengoff, once the city's most fashionable neighborhood. The area still boasted coffee shops, discotheques, and boutiques, but it was showing its age like bald patches on what had once been an exquisite fur coat. The shop catered to an older clientele, those who had enjoyed it here in the vicinity's heyday. Most had been born in Western Europe or the United States and were therefore accustomed to the luxury of trying to replace youth with facials, massages, and sculpted hair. Early on, Theli had noted that no matter how much the other girls in white jackets rubbed perfumed salves into leathery skin, irrespective of the quantity of eye shadow and lip gloss or the subtle arrangement of thinning hair to conceal bare spots, the only thing that really improved was the coffers of the shop. And maybe, just maybe, the attitudes of its refurbished customers.
Theli had been working at the building for two years now, ever since she had returned to Israel with a degree in computer science from Southwestern University, a small school for electronic and math geeks within blocks of the Mississippi as it lazed through Memphis, Tennessee. She had been home only a day when she had been approached by a charming young man who had told her he was recruiting persons skillful both on the computer and in English. She never knew how high she had scored on the tests she had taken, but they were far more difficult than any she had taken in school.
Then he told her whom he really worked for.
At twenty-four, she had been willing to trade the sugarplum visions of high salary for the equally evasive excitement of working for Israeli intelligence, Mossad. When it turned out she would do all her spying from a computer terminal, she was disappointed, of course. But, after all, it would count as her mandatory military service.
So, she came to work six days a week to the building with no street number that looked like one of those Bauhaus multistoried buildings whose no-nonsense utilitarianism had appealed to the wave of immigrants of the 1950s. That had been when the city itself had been newly created from a few settlements and the old port of Jaffa, the same port from which Jonah had commenced one of the strangest voyages ever recorded.
Every day she would speak to the girls already snipping hair or smearing ooze on customers for a facial as she passed through the salon. She had no idea if they were actually cosmeticians or worked for Mossad, too. Once across the mirrored, brightly lit room, she opened the door marked office and descended several flights of stairs to another door, this one flanked by two armed men in uniform. Inside was a long room consisting entirely of a double row of computer screens. Even if the place was well lit and never varied from a constant twenty degrees Celsius, it reminded Theli of a dark cave dug into a mountainside, a place i
n the desert where Elijah or another Hebrew prophet might have lived.
This morning a man she had never seen before was waiting at her workstation. His windbreaker displayed the authorized visitor's badge. He was tall, tanned from the sun, and inclined to exhibit a perfect set of teeth. British, judging by the accent of his Hebrew. "I've got a favor to ask of you."
Theli was instantly on guard. Hardly a day passed without... without—what was the American phrase?— her being hit on. Men hit on her regularly. They frequently wanted favors that caused problems. She said nothing as she sat down and turned her machine on.
"I need some information," the man said, unfazed by Theli's lack of response.
She was entering her password, which appeared as a series of Xs across the screen. "Information requests come from the head office."
He hovered over her shoulder. "True. But this request comes from an old friend of the company, something he wants run down outside of channels."
Theli swiveled around in her chair, switching to English. "Let me get this straight: You appear unannounced, no introduction, and want me simply to drop what I'm doing to go outside established procedure to get you information you might or might not have clearance to see. Is that about it?"
He was reaching inside the pocket of his windbreaker. "I apologize." He handed her a folded, letter-size piece of paper. The first thing she noticed was the embossed seal at the top, along with the word secret stamped in red right under it. "I really should have started with this."
"That certainly would have expedited things," she commented dryly, reading and returning the sheet. "Exactly what is it you want?"
"Sharing your next coffee break would be nice."
It would have been churlish not to reward the clumsy effort with at least a smile. "Let's get started on the information you want."
A few minutes later the stranger was about to leave. "What about the coffee break?"
"Don't take them."
For the first time the perfect teeth disappeared.
"But I usually leave here about seventeen hundred."
It was only after he had gone that Theli realized she still didn't know his name.
FORTY-NINE
Bull & Rose Public House
Abington, Gloucestershire
Northwest of London
A Day Later
Lang sipped his room-temperature pint of ale, admiring the meticulously landscaped rose garden, typical of those surrounding each lock of the Thames. The lock itself was crowded with small pleasure boats, each equipped with weekend mariners and one or more dogs. Most of the former wore swimming attire that showed off skin the color of fish bellies. Lang wondered if the English ever had enough summer weather to tan.
Across from him, Jacob was making rings on the Weathered wooden tabletop with the bottom of his black and tan, a half-and-half of beer floating on stout: "No bother?"
Lang shook his head. "Not a bit. Had a friend drive me to Victoria Station and buy a ticket while I stayed out of the way in the men's WC, and caught the first train. Was here in less than an hour. Why'd you choose this place, anyway? Doesn't seem to be much going on."
Jacob glanced around. The sluggish river crept right to left, then narrowed to pass under an arched stone bridge that seemed to be buttressed by a grove of willow trees.
In the other direction was the domed town hall, one of the few buildings erected during the rule of Cromwell. "You've answered your own question, lad. Far as I know, farming's all that's up around here. There's a county fair every summer and that's it. Few coppers, fewer surveillance cameras."
Both men were silent for a moment, as though contemplating the rarity of such pastoral surroundings.
Jacob was reaching for what Lang suspected was a pipe when Lang spoke. "You said your folks found something?"
The pipe stopped halfway to Jacob's mouth. "I did indeed. Using your premise that the rotters in this case are somehow connected to Israel..."
"Had a connection to Israeli intelligence," Lang corrected.
Jacob was patting his pockets in the search of the tobacco pouch. "Just so. I had some friends at Mossad start with the Desert Eagles. The army swapped them in four years ago. Chap by the name of Zwelk, a former colonel in the quartermaster's corps, handled that. The old guns were to be melted down. You can imagine what a dilemma that was, choosing between destroying several hundred thousand dollars' worth of equipment or selling it in the same international arms market that equips Hamas and that lot."
Lang smiled at the thought of the quandary that must have posed. "And?"
"Appeared to have been a discrepancy between the number turned in and the actual number receipted by the smelter. About forty weapons in all."
Lang had forgotten his ale. "Too many for a clerical mistake. Was there any follow-up?"
Now Jacob was conducting a pocket-by-pocket search for matches. Despite the view, Lang was wishing they had chosen a table inside, where smoking was forbidden. "Oh, there was a proper ruckus, an exchange of e-mails, but that was about it. Zwelk was about to retire to a kibbutz, anyway. It was an election year, and the government wasn't too keen about making a public brouhaha of it."
Compared to Israeli politics, those in the States were calm indeed. In such a small country many of the constituents knew their representatives and were passionately pro or anti. Accusing one of the many factions, cults, or sects of something could easily upset the precarious balance of power based on the thinnest coalitions between groups disparate in culture, ethnic origin, or belief. Alienation of the smallest group could bring down the government.
Lang sat back in his chair, waiting.
Jacob found his own Mirabelle's matches, and puffs of evil-smelling smoke dissipated into the air. "I pulled some strings, as you Yanks would say, and got a peek into the man's service jacket. Seems the pistols weren't the first things nicked on his watch. A dozen or so A-model Heckler & Koch MP5s vanished the year before."
The same model Lang had seen far too well just outside Brussels.
Jacob took the pipe out of his mouth and inspected the bowl, a gesture Lang recognized as a dramatic pause before revealing the more important part of what he had to say. "He was still being investigated for that when the Desert Eagles went missing. Had the cheek to deny he knew anything about it."
"Amazing the man could be so careless," Lang commented dryly.
Jacob nodded. "Seems Colonel Zwelk had had a past with Mossad. There was a spot of bother there, too. Suspected but never convicted of sharing classified with unauthorized. Rather than cause problems, transferred to the quartermaster corps of the army."
A definite demotion. Like going from naval intelligence to galley duty.
Lang tried to mask his impatience. "Any reason given?"
Jacob took a full five seconds applying another match. "No. But I did find that, while he was there, the good colonel had whatever Echelon access Mossad could beg from the Americans or English."
"So, it's possible that he kept a contact there."
Jacob eyed Lang over his glass. "Possible his contact passed on an occasional transmission, but how would he know which ones?"
Lang remembered the glass in front of him and emptied it before waving to the waiter. "Once you're into Echelon, you're into the filter system. You can key in words, names, phone numbers."
Jacob mouthed a perfect smoke ring that spun into the still air a moment before dissolving. "Well, then, there's your answer as to how they knew where you were. Whoever the sodding 'they' might be."
Lang knew his friend well enough to know there was more. "I can't imagine you stopped there."
Jacob applied yet another light before continuing. "You know me well. The lad's background's seemed worth a glance. He was born into a sect of extremely conservative nationalistic Jews who call themselves the Essenes."
Lang thought a moment. The name sounded familiar. "Weren't they the group that lived out in the desert, out near Qumran, where the Dead Sea Scrolls w
ere found?"
"Had quite a settlement: water conduits, huge meeting rooms, their own coinage. They settled in the desert before Christ's birth, were displaced by an earthquake, and moved back to the same place about the time of Herod the Great. They were one of the three philosophical Jewish sects, the others being the Pharisees and Sadducees."
"And they're still around?"
The pipe had gone out and would not rekindle. "So it would seem. Though that lot no longer live in isolation, they are intensely loyal to their order, are extreme Zionists, have their own kibbutz, and still hold to many of the old ways. Think of them as Jewish Amish crossed with your VFW"
Use of the most sophisticated eavesdropping devices the world had ever known, theft of modern weapons, and attempted and actual murder did not exactly comply with Lang's concept of peaceful, if eccentric, Pennsylvania farmers.
Lang thought a moment before asking, "I don't suppose this colonel of yours has any connection to Bruges?"
Jacob stopped in the middle of reaming the pipe bowl with the nail. "Bruges? As in Belgium?"
"As in."
"Odd you would ask. Bruges happens to be the only place outside of Israel where there are any of them to speak of. Understand a small colony is still there, remains of the many who migrated during the Middle Ages, when Jews were the only banks in Europe, what with you Christians finding it sinful to lend money for interest. This lot financed the lace and weaving trades all over the Spanish Empire, which, of course, included Belgium. Just like their cousins back home, they keep pretty much to themselves."
"That's an odd bit of information."
"Mossad keeps track of factions of Jews that might be militant at home and abroad. But why...?"
Lang slowly nodded. "And if we were to check out Benjamin Yadish, I'd bet he had been an Essene."
They both thought of that before Jacob stood. "Seeing how many these sodding bounders, if it is them, have killed, I'd say being a Jew isn't a primary requirement." He glanced over his shoulder back into the pub. "Too many black and tans. I've got to go to the loo."