The Sinai Secret lr-4

by Gregg Loomis

  Witherspoon was moving in a semicircle, taking side steps so that he always maintained his balance. Lang was reminded of the dance of a fighter looking for an opportunity to deliver the knockout punch. "All that matters to you, Reilly, is that I learned it."

  Lang was also moving to keep squarely in front of Witherspoon. "There's no point in this, you know. You heard the helicopters. The Israeli police will be here in seconds. I wouldn't want to have a weapon in hand when they burst through that door."

  Witherspoon's lips curled back from his teeth in a cruel parody of a smile. "So what? I didn't come all the way back to Israel to surrender, to let you undermine my people's right to their own land. If I die for that cause, I'll be happy."

  "Oh, come off it! Even your Muslim neighbors get multiple virgins in paradise for martyrdom."

  "Less talk, Reilly. It's time for you to die."

  Retreating a step, Lang groped behind him, his hand touching one of the chairs. He snatched it up by the back, holding it out like a circus performer confronting a ring full of snarling lions.

  Witherspoon shoved it aside and feinted a stab to Lang's right before slashing at Lang's left.

  The chair was too heavy to use as a weapon. Stepping back, Lang simultaneously slammed it against the floor. As he had hoped, the legs broke free. Still watching Witherspoon, he scooped one up. Now he at least had a club.

  Witherspoon, still pacing, snorted. "A piece of wood won't save you."

  The chair leg had snapped off, leaving a sharp point where it had been attached. Lang jabbed. "Like the song says, Witherspoon, 'a little less talk and a lot more action.' Much as you'd like to, you can't talk me to death."

  Lang knew his best chance lay in either stalling until help arrived or forcing Witherspoon to commit himself. A broken chair leg was better than no weapon, but not by much.

  Lang's eyes fastened onto those of his antagonist. He was aware that even the most experienced knife fighter must at least glance in the direction of attack.

  Thrust and parry, thrust and parry. Lang blocked each jab with solid wood, retreating a step with each move. He felt the wall at his back, a fact Witherspoon must have noted, judging by the victorious smile on his face.

  But the man had given himself away. His eyes shifted quickly to the opposite side before he feigned an attack. This time Lang was ready. Witherspoon's eyes darted to Lang's right as he jabbed futilely to the left. When he moved right, arm extended for what he anticipated would be the kill, Lang spun aside, bringing the chair leg crashing down across Witherspoon's wrist, smashing the ulna.

  Witherspoon howled as the knife spun like a sparkling comet across the room. He bent over, cradling the shattered bones of his wrist. Lang was tempted to swing the chair leg down on the man's head. Too risky. Such blows reliably rendered only film villains unconscious. In real life the skull was frequently too thick to allow more than temporarily dazing an opponent.

  That was one of the reasons the Agency had taught the seven kill spots on the human body.

  Lang jabbed upward, stabbing the wooden point into the area just below the chin. Witherspoon's head snapped head back with sufficient force that Lang could hear the vertebrae snap.

  Witherspoon dropped lifelessly to the floor.

  "What a sodding mess!"

  Whirling, Lang faced the source of the voice as he raised the chair leg for another blow.

  Jacob stood in the doorway, surveying the carnage inside. "Put that silly stick down and come outside."

  Lang grinned. "Remind me not to let you near any weapon I own. What would have happened if it had been me instead of Zwelk pulling that trigger?"

  "If you had had to shoot it out with two Uzis, what happened when you pulled the trigger would be sodding irrelevent."

  Lang held Alicia's hand as he followed Jacob. They had almost reached a place where neither the pale light of the fire's embers nor that from surrounding buildings could reach them when Lang heard an order in English to stop.

  There was just enough illumination to make out four men. One, the oldest of the group, wore a rumpled suit and tie. Another was dressed in shirt and pants as though for the golf course; a third was in the uniform of the Israeli police. The fourth, in military uniform, held an Uzi at bay, not pointed at Lang but not far from it, either.

  Jacob immediately stepped forward. "Yosi, is that you? Yosi Gruber, the lad I knew was bright enough but never had the discipline to make the intelligence service?"

  The one in the polo shirt stepped forward, grinning. "Jacob Anueliwitz! What is a retired old goat like you doing here?"

  " 'Old goat', is it?" Jacob laughed. "Well, I'll be telling you youngsters something: While you were farting about, I've found an arsenal here."

  "So what?" the policeman said. "It's not uncommon for these kibbutzes to be ready to defend themselves."

  "With rocket and grenade launchers?" Jacob asked, grinning evilly. "I'd bet ten quid you'll find the last few attacks by the wogs on 'tother side of that wall started when some bloke lobbed explosives into their villages. A provocateur is what you have here."

  Rauch was at a total loss. He was expecting to make an arrest, and what he was witnessing more resembled a family reunion. He stepped forward, facing Lang. "Mr. Langford Reilly?"

  "Yes?"

  "You are arrested."

  Lang looked quizzically at Jacob and then to Gruber. "By whom and what in the hell for? Or is that a secret?"

  "I am Chief Inspector Rauch of the Vienna police, and you are for questioning wanted in regard to the murder of Dr. Heimlich Shaffer."

  "Heimlich Shaffer?" Lang asked. "The professor I had dinner with? He's been murdered? By whom?"

  "That, Mr. Reilly, is what we hope you can tell us."

  "Then you're about to be seriously disappointed."

  A man. in an Israeli army uniform appeared out the darkness as though by a magician's trick. He spoke hurried Hebrew to Gruber.

  In turn, the intelligence man turned to Rauch. "I'd like to borrow your prisoner for a few moments, Inspector."

  The Austrian was hardly in a position to refuse.

  Lang looked at Alicia. "You okay?"

  "Oh, sure," she said. "Just peachy keen. And why not? After all, I've been within seconds of being killed, treated to a marvelous display of testosterone, and splattered with someone else's blood. No reason to worry about me."

  Sarcasm was one of her less attractive features.

  Lang, Gruber, Jacob, and two Israeli soldiers crossed to a small hut on the far side of the kibbutz. Rauch, unwilling to let his prisoner out of his sight, followed a pace or two behind.

  The interior of the building was deja-vu for Lang. A long table was lined with scientific equipment resembling the laboratories at Georgia Tech and Amsterdam. There was a notable addition: an oblong, boxlike device clearly made of a combination of wood and gold, decidedly out of place among the gleaming gauges, scales, and machines.

  Gruber pointed to it. "Mr. Reilly, I have a feeling you might know what that is"

  "Whatever gave you that idea?"

  Gruber frowned. "It is getting late, and I have little patience for games. I think you did not spend the time reconnoitering this kibbutz as a possible place to vacation. I think you were interested in this object."

  Jacob spoke for the first time. "Actually, old man, he was looking for the lady, the red-haired bird you saw. Seems Zwelk nicked her as bait to force Mr. Reilly to come here. Truly ill of the man, what?"

  Gruber was unconvinced. "Why would he do that, want to force Mr. Reilly to come here?"

  Jacob shrugged. "Who knows the mind of someone that irrational? You yourself said the man was a fanatic."

  Gruber's expression said he was certain he wasn't hearing the whole story. Jacob's expression said he had told all he intended to.

  Gruber shook his head slowly. "It is unlikely anyone in government will mourn Zwelk's death. He was a threat to any possible peace with the Palestinians." He jerked his head toward th
e wall. "The cache of arms here far exceeds any need to simply defend the kibbutz. The man was prepared to provoke a war."

  One of the men in uniform with a sergeant's chevrons on his sleeve spoke excitedly in Hebrew. Gruber stepped over to where the man was pointing and held up a test tube and a beaker.

  "Some sort of white powder and…" He looked closer at the test tube. "What looks like gold dust." His face wrinkled into that of a man perplexed. "What would these people be doing with gold dust?"

  Jacob and Lang exchanged glances.

  "Struck gold on the Jordan River?" Lang suggested.

  "Not likely. It is fifty miles away." Gruber's glare told him the man had no sense of humor.

  "I say, looks like something you might want to refer to your superiors," Jacob offered.

  Gruber looked skeptical.

  Jacob spoke in Hebrew, apparently repeating the suggestion before switching back to English. "I cannot tell you how deucedly clever it would be to take all this equipment, gold, and that white powder back to Tel Aviv. I'd speculate someone there will be very interested in the whole lot."

  Gruber shook his head. "But I can't just… just take kibbutz property because someone back at the office might be interested."

  Jacob puffed his cheeks and exhaled loudly, the sound of exasperation. "I'd give a monkey to a monkey wrench that this kibbutz is about to go out of business once the government sees what's in this building."

  He reached into a pocket, producing a pipe. Another hand held the tobacco pouch. Under Gruber's glare he shook his head and put both away for the moment, turning to Rauch. "Inspector, I'm no copper, but I'd suggest you take a close look at the arsenal these people have here. Another wager: You'll find either the weapon that killed your Dr. Shaffer or its mate. No point in putting Reilly in the coop when it's clear that Zwelk and his lads had every reason to kill the professor."

  Rauch had a mental picture of returning to Vienna without Reilly after what had been spent to get here, life- size and in natural color. He'd be back in uniform, foot- patrolling the Karlsplatz Bahnhof for drug dealers or chasing Gypsy beggars out of U-Bahn stations.

  "I will certainly be interested in what you have to show me," he said noncommittally. "I have been sent for questions to bring Mr. Reilly to Vienna. My superiors will decide what acts to take."

  The German syntax reminded Lang of Gurt. Too bad the inspector lacked her humor.

  And looks.

  Gruber intervened. "Hate to disappoint you, Inspector, but I have a feeling my government will want to speak with Mr. Reilly before he leaves the country."

  And they did.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Tel Aviv

  Two Days Later

  Lang spent the days with a man Jacob later identified as Mossad's master interrogator. He was mostly interested in just how much Lang knew and how far along Zwelk's work with gold might have gotten. The word weapon was never mentioned, but the progress of the foundation's research was. Although not specifically told, Lang came away with the definite impression that it would be wise to stick to matters of a medical nature.

  It was an idea he would definitely consider.

  While Lang was occupied with answering questions, Jacob gave Alicia a view of the city, a fast-paced walking tour that left her begging for time-out and an afternoon nap. With her back at the hotel, Jacob moved much more leisurely and directly into the Yemenite Quarter, the city's oldest. Narrow streets were lined with Arab-type dwellings competing for space with newer Art Deco homes, many decorated with tile panels. He turned into Nakhaler Binyamin Street, where fashionable boutiques and cafes did a brisk business despite the afternoon heat.

  He passed several outdoor tables under an awning and a sign announcing the premises as the Camel's Hump in Hebrew and English before slowly turning around. As though unsure of his surroundings, he surveyed the nearly empty street before backtracking to the cafe and sitting across a table from a man whose face was hidden by a newspaper.

  "Try the konafa," said a voice from behind the pages. "It's freshly baked."

  Jacob nodded his assent to a waiter who had appeared as though by magic and vanished just as quickly. "I assume you didn't ask me here to sample the pastry."

  The paper dropped to the table and Gruber shook his head. "No, but it's good enough to make the trip worthwhile."

  Jacob waited until a tiny cup of black Turkish coffee was placed next to the small plate holding roasted pistachios wrapped in crisp strings of fried dough and the waiter had retreated.

  Gruber folded the paper with a great deal more care than a day-old tabloid merited. Jacob wondered idly whether Mossad budget cuts had mandated reuse of newspapers.

  "We owe you and your friend Reilly," the security man said.

  Jacob was reaching for his coffee. "And just who might 'we' be?"

  Gruber folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. "All of us Jews, the government."

  Jacob refrained from pointing out that the two were far from synonymous.

  "We needed to get rid of that nutcase on the Gaza border. He would have provoked the Palestinians into another war."

  Again Jacob kept quiet, not mentioning that everything from an Israeli prime minister's casual visit to the Temple Mount to security precautions against suicide bombers seemed to have that unfortunate effect on the Palestinians and their beneficent, peace-loving Islamic brethren.

  "Or worse, much worse. And the politicians would never have allowed us to storm in there without a reason. How'd you steer Reilly to that kibbutz, anyway?"

  Jacob sampled coffee that had the consistency of used motor oil. He ameliorated its bitterness with a nibble at his pastry. "I didn't. Zwelk did it for us."

  Gruber nodded knowingly. "I should have guessed. Not even you could have arranged for the girl to be kidnapped and taken there. But you did do a hell of a job trashing the place."

  "A specialty," Jacob said uncomfortably.

  Although he was happy to have the Israeli government owe him a favor, he would not want Lang to even suspect he had been manipulated.

  "He never questioned how that oil truck just happened to be in the right place, how you just guessed the satellite coordinates for the kibbutz, or…?"

  Jacob was definitely ill at ease, his coffee and konafa in midair. "Just so happened your interest and his coincided."

  He wished this circuitous conversation would reach its intended destination, but he did have a question. "I'm curious: How did you make sure Zwelk learned about the Melk manuscript?"

  "Easily enough. Its existence had been rumored for centuries. The problem was finding it and making it disappear without causing an incident. Zwelk had someone at the monastery. The guy worked for us, too."

  "And you guessed he'd do whatever it took to make sure it never became public."

  A statement, not a question.

  "Pretty much a given. Our historic claim to this land is the moral right we have to a nation of our own. Any true Zionist would die, if need be, to protect that."

  "So, your double agent tipped you the chase was on."

  Gruber nodded affirmatively and glanced around as though fearful of eavesdroppers before leaning forward, ready to finally come to the point. "How much does Reilly know?"

  Jacob put down the pastry and stared innocently. "Know about what?"

  Gruber frowned. "Don't fuck with me! The weapons system, of course! You're the one who suggested I take that powder and the box to King Solomon Street. Does Reilly realize what it is, how it works, what it can do?"

  Jacob took another sip of the viscous coffee to give himself a moment to think before answering. He had little doubt what would happen to Lang if he told the truth. "I think he swallowed that trash you fed him about not caring about the historical origins of the country."

  Gruber's eyes glistened with irritation Jacob knew could become lethal. "That wasn't the question."

  Jacob shrugged. "If you're asking me specifically if he knows about the power that can be
generated from the dimensions of the Ark, I'd say he hasn't the foggiest. The man's a sodding barrister, not a scientist."

  Gruber leaned back against his seat, a man relieved. "Glad to hear it. He's not a bad sort for an American. But national security comes first, right? You'll let us know if he figures it out, right?"

  Jacob took another bite of pastry. "Right."

  Right after I make a dash across Trafalgar Square in the buff.

  Gruber's chair protested against the pavement as he pushed back and stood, tossing shekels onto the table to cover Jacob's tab. "Glad to hear that, too." He picked up the newspaper. "And so will be King Solomon Street. They would do whatever was necessary to keep the secret".

  The warning was far from idle. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police bragged of always getting their man;

  Mossad did. Even if it took years. Retribution for the murders of the Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics was completed nearly fifteen years later.

  Jacob watched Gruber walk away, wondering if Lang, too, had just been threatened.

  It was on the way to the airport in a limousine offered by Gruber that Lang decided to ask Jacob a question that wouldn't go away.

  "The Ark?"

  Jacob turned from staring out of the window, his teeth grinding in resentment of very explicit warnings that smoking was not, repeat, not allowed in government transportation. "What about it?"

  "Israel has made some sort of weapons defense system out of it, hasn't it?"

  Jacob looked forward, making sure the glass between the driver and passenger compartments was up before he replied, "Trust me-you don't want to know."

  SIXTY-TWO

  Sudbahnhof Police Station

  Wiedner Gurtel

  Vienna

  Three Days Later

  Lang stood in Rauch's office with his hands clasped behind him, gazing out of a window as he waited for the inspector.

  Somewhere out there, somewhere in Vienna, Jacob was showing Alicia the city. Or at least that part of it the three had not seen yesterday. They had started with a brief train ride to the Hapsburg summer palace, Schonbrunn. Here the last real Austro-Hungarian emperor, Franz Joseph, had put aside one day a week when his subjects might meet their ruler and personally express whatever grievance, real or fancied, they might have against the imperial government. The man had lived to see his armies shift from horsepower to airpower, finally dying in 1916.