“Of course.” Archer gave Isaac a thin smile utterly without humor. “We want you, in fact, to accept the UFM code on international television. We’ve arranged for a meeting with the prime minister, in which you will both have the code applied to your Universal Chips. And after your countrymen see that it is possible to be loyal to Israel and universality, they will renounce their old prohibitions and embrace the prin-ciples of unity and peace.”
Isaac felt the corner of his mouth twist with exasperation. “If the prime minister was involved in this negotiation, why did I not know about it? I am supposed to be the liaison between Romulus and the prime minister’s office.”
“My dear young man,” Archer said, patting him on the shoulder in a paternal fashion as he escorted him out, “you were away from us on a far more important mission. This notion came to me rather suddenly, and Romulus thought it a brilliant idea. So go to your hotel, get a good night’s rest, and plan on returning to Jerusalem later this week. We’ll be in touch later, once the details for the observance have been settled.”
As he stepped down the marble stairs toward the car, Isaac felt the truth all at once, like an electric tingle in the pit of his stomach. Archer was lying. Isaac had only been away from Paris for two days, and such a sudden idea could certainly have waited forty-eight hours. But they didn’t want him to speak to the prime minister’s office about the UFM code, and they didn’t want him in Jerusalem while they made plans for this televised ceremony.
If Archer was lying about something so trivial as this, nothing at Chez Romulus was as it seemed.
What else had they lied about?
At a small café two blocks from his Paris B&B, Isaac stood before a pay phone and dialed his home in Jerusalem. Sarah answered almost immediately. For the briefest instant Isaac wondered if she had leaped to answer a call from Danny Melman, but he shoved those thoughts aside to address a more pressing issue.
“Sarah?” Knowing the Israelis and Romulus’s people probably monitored her phone line, he took pains to keep his voice light. “Hi. I was just wondering—is Uncle Laban coming to dinner tomorrow?”
He knew he’d caught her by surprise; still, the long hiss of the telephone line concerned him.
“Uncle Laban?” she finally said, a catch in her voice. “Why, yes. I expect him at ten. We’re having dinner at the little bistro. The one nearest our house.”
“I hope you have a good time.” Isaac paused, listening to the silence. There were so many things he wanted to say, but this was not the time or place. “Sorry, but I have to go,” he said. “I love you.”
She didn’t answer, but he thought he heard the sound of a muffled sob before he disconnected the call.
Every Shin Bet officer and IDF liaison learned lessons in basic intelligence tradecraft, and he and Sarah had just practiced a lesson from basic telephone evasion techniques. “Uncle Laban” was the nearest Israeli agent in Paris, probably someone in Mossad. She’d told Isaac that he would arrive at ten, which meant she’d send a contact to rendezvous with Isaac at either nine or eleven that night. And the bistro “nearest our house” meant whichever restaurant was closest to the Israeli embassy in Paris.
A light rain had begun to fall when Isaac stepped outside the café. He pulled the collar of his coat up to shield his throat, then thrust his hands into his pockets and hunched forward, walking into the night.
NINETEEN
AT THE SHABAK OFFICE IN JERUSALEM, DANNY MELMAN paced beside the conference table, his face contorted in frustration. “What did he say exactly, Sarah? We need every detail.”
Irked by his cool, detached manner, Sarah glared up at her boss. “I’ve told you what he said. If you want a word-for-word rendition, pull out the tapes and listen for yourself. I know my phone is tapped.”
Melman scrubbed his hand through his hair in frustration, then looked at the Mossad director seated in the briefing room with them. “You heard her. Ben-David needs an agent tonight, so something’s up. He’s never called for help before.”
“I’ll see to it.” The Mossad director smiled a grim little grin as he stood and turned to edge past Melman. “We’ve been expecting something. Romulus’s people have been in touch with the PM’s office, and we think the major was left out of the loop—until tonight, apparently.”
Sarah watched him go, then clasped her hands and looked up at Melman. “Do you think Isaac’s really in trouble? I heard about what happened in Paris today—”
“We don’t know what happened in Paris.”
She laughed, a bitter note in her voice. “You mean we don’t want to accept what happened in Paris. But I saw the entire thing. A French cameraman caught it on film, and CNN sent it out over the satellite. They aired it once before the Universal machine pulled the plug—”
“Hush.” Melman glanced toward the open door. “You don’t know that the tape was censored. They’re now calling it a fabrication.”
“A fabrication?” Sarah’s lower lip trembled as she stared at her boss. “Does that make sense to you? I saw it, Danny, and what I saw was too bizarre to be a fabrication. Those two prophets were standing outside Romulus’s gates when two of Romulus’s security guards came down to arrest them. The security guys were at least fifteen feet away when they drew their weapons, and from the look of the video I saw, I’d say they got off at least one shot each. But then the one who calls himself Moses pointed at the guards and whoosh! Just like that, the man lit up like a human torch.”
“The official story is that they had an accident,” Melman said, his gray eyes darkening as he held her gaze. “The latest press release stated that the men spilled gasoline on their uniforms and ignited when one of them tried to light a cigarette. Or maybe what you saw was accurate, and a spark from the guy’s discharging gun ignited their clothing. But what you’re saying couldn’t be true. It’s not humanly possible.”
“The laws of nature and physics don’t seem to apply to those two.” Sarah turned in her chair and raked her fingers into her hair, leaning her head on her hand. “I mean, think about it. They said they would block up the heavens because humanity would not repent, and now we’re in the middle of the worst drought in history. They predicted famine, and half the world is starving today. They predicted pestilence, and Africa is now in the grip of bubonic plague, and AIDS, and that horrible new virus I can’t even pronounce—”
Melman snorted softly and sat on the edge of the table. “It’s all a matter of natural progression, don’t you see? The drought brings the famine, and the famine brings the pestilence. Those men didn’t cause any of this. They’re just crazies, like the majnoon that invade Jerusalem every Easter. And I hope they stay in Paris—I’d rather they bother Adrian Romulus than come back here and bedevil us.”
Unwillingly, Sarah’s thoughts turned to the man on whose account she had called this late meeting. “Isaac is in Paris,” she said slowly, running her hand through her hair. “And he needs our help, or he wouldn’t have called us.”
“And we’re going to take care of him. He’s one of ours.” Melman stepped closer and took her hand, prying it from her tangled hair. “Don’t worry, Sarah. Everything is going to be fine.”
Adam Archer stood in the steady drizzle of a cold Paris street and watched as Isaac Ben-David entered Au Caveau Montpensier, a cozy English pub merely a stone’s throw from the Israeli embassy. The man had been careful. If not for the unexpected call to his wife—one that consisted of cryptic language and ended with a surprise profession of love—they would not have expected Isaac to do anything but go back to the hotel and go to sleep. But instead, he had gone out into the rain, his head lowered in thought. The agents stationed outside the B&B had let him go and concentrated on the signal from the homing beacon hidden inside the pen Archer slipped into Ben-David’s pocket as he ushered the Israeli out the door.
Ben-David hesitated outside the bar for a moment, then opened the door and entered. Archer jogged across the street and splashed through a puddle, then sto
od on the sidewalk outside the establishment and peered through a stained-glass window. Ben-David was sitting at the bar, the picture of a lonely military man.
Now another man approached. The other agent.
Archer grinned and crossed his arms, not caring that the drizzle had chilled him to the bone. Though he hadn’t been in the room when Ben-David presented the spear to Romulus, he’d heard enough to know that the experience had fallen just a hair short of a circus sideshow. Reis had admitted as much and suspected that this born-and-bred Israeli might be thinking about jumping ship . . . or raising the curtain before Romulus was ready.
Archer stepped beneath the shadow of an awning and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. After taking a moment to light the tip, he inhaled deeply, then watched the smoke flow out into the chilly air. Nothing could surpass the satisfaction of a job well done. And his hunch had proved true.
After ten minutes, the second man leaned close to Ben-David, briefly placing his hand on his comrade’s shoulder. Then he turned and moved toward the doorway. Archer flung his cigarette onto the sidewalk and left it to drown in the rain.
The agent walked quickly down Rue Montpensier, his head covered by a brimmed hat, his hands hidden within the pockets of a beige jacket. Archer lengthened his stride until he walked next to the man, then greeted him with a broad smile. “Hello! Haven’t we met before?”
The agent blinked, then waved a hand. “Pardon, mais je ne parle pas anglais.”
“I think you speak English just fine.” Archer pulled the Heckler & Koch .45 from the holster beneath his coat and allowed his quarry a quick glimpse before shoving it into the man’s rib cage. “We’re going to step into this alley, and you’re going to tell me everything you and Isaac Ben-David talked about.”
The man pressed his lips together, but lifted his hands in a “don’t shoot” pose and allowed Archer to escort him into the darkened alley. Archer pulled the man into a shadowed corner behind a trash receptacle, frisked him and pulled a gun from his shoulder holster, then stood him against the wall.
He shoved the man’s gun deep into his coat pocket, then waved his own gun slightly, but kept it pointed toward the man’s chest. At this close range, they’d be scraping rib chips out of the brick building if he fired. “Tell me about Major Ben-David.”
Archer had to hand it to the Israelis; their agents didn’t fluster easily. The man only held up his hands and lifted his shoulders in an impatient shrug. “I don’t know who you are talking about.”
“The man in the bar, you fool. I saw you talking to him.”
“I never caught his name.”
Archer gritted his teeth. “What did you talk about?”
The man only stared, wearing his face like a mask. “We talked about the weather.”
“You lie!”
Stepping forward, Archer slammed the handgun across the man’s right cheekbone. The fellow doubled over, then gripped his knees and panted heavily. “We talked,” he repeated, glaring up at Archer, “about the weather.”
“All right, let’s say you did.” Archer settled the gun again, aiming this time for the man’s dark head. “Where were you going just now? Who else would be interested in the major’s little weather report?”
“I was going home to my wife and children.”
Archer hit the man again, on the same cheek. The skin separated, and even from where he stood, Archer could smell the metallic tang of blood.
His victim hunched further, perspiration beading upon his forehead. A muscle moved beneath the sheen of blood on his jaw, and he breathed through his nose with a faint whistling sound.
“You’re not going to talk.” Archer stated it as a matter of fact, not a question. The Israelis had always possessed remarkable resolve. They occasionally failed spectacularly, but their failures were rare, and they had more chutzpah than any intelligence agency in the world.
The man looked up, his eyes glittering like a paralyzed bird that sees the serpent approaching.
Archer pulled a Waterman pen from his pocket. “This idea,” he held the pen before the wounded man’s eyes, “came from the Soviets. There’s a cyanide capsule in the barrel. One bite from you, one hard bite, and it’ll all be over. Your agency will have a few questions, no doubt, but they’ll know you made your own choice. If they find you splattered all over this wall, however, they’ll always wonder how much you gave away before you died.”
He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “So—do you want the pen or not?”
The Israeli’s dark brows rose, graceful wings of scorn. But then he reached out and took the pen.
Ten minutes later, Archer slid into a booth in a French McDonald’s and punched Romulus’s direct number on his cell phone. “It’s done,” he said when Reis came on the encrypted line. “No one will know anything until the time is right.”
“Well done, General.” Satisfaction purred in Reis’s voice, then abruptly vanished. “But what of the two renegades? They are creating chaos and confusion; I’ve just heard that they turned water into blood.”
Shifting in his seat, Archer watched a young boy dip his French fry into a puddle of catsup. “I’m working on that.”
“The president is losing patience.”
“We’ll get them.” Archer wrapped his palm around his coffee cup, then took a sip and enjoyed the warmth of the hot beverage. “After all, I doubt they’ve included immortality in their bag of tricks.”
TWENTY
ISAAC KNEW HE WAS BEING WATCHED. FOR AS LONG AS he’d been in Paris, he’d been certain that Romulus’s security people kept tabs on his goings and comings, but he had not felt the pressure of constant surveillance until after his return from Vienna. He wanted to blame the heavy sensation of foreboding on paranoia, but common sense reminded him that in the international arena, paranoia could be a healthy instinct. As an agent friend had once reminded him, “Paranoid means you know a little of what’s going on. There’s usually a lot more under the surface.”
Following Archer’s instructions, he followed a quiet routine. He slept late in his bachelor’s room at the bed-and-breakfast, went for leisurely walks through the neighborhood, and even took in an English production of Jekyll and Hyde at the Opera Bastille. Every nerve in his body screamed with the urgent need to warn Sarah and Colonel Barak about the latest disturbing development in Romulus’s program, but he had already done his part. He was but one player among many, and the Mossad would handle the information. If Romulus meant to do something evil now that he possessed the spear, Israel would be forearmed. Knowledge was power, and now they knew that he had a bent toward the occult and he truly seemed to believe in the spear as a talisman of supernatural power . . .
As Isaac watched the production of Jekyll and Hyde, he couldn’t help wondering about the twin poles he had observed in Romulus. The man could be charming, easy-going, and pleasant. He laughed easily and charmed everyone from babies to old men with the ease of a practiced politician. Isaac had recently read that the name Adrian was a new favorite for both boys and girls born in the last three years. Even Romulus had made the top-ten list of baby names.
But he could not deny the man’s dark side. When Isaac placed the spear in Romulus’s hand, he felt something akin to evil emanating from the man’s core. Polite society, of course, would find such a notion laughable. No one these days believed a man could be pure good or pure evil; every individual was a mix of good and bad. No man was completely Jekyll; no man was purely Hyde. Neither was Romulus.
On Friday evening, after nearly a full week of waiting, Madame Blanchette, the mistress of the B&B, summoned Isaac to the phone. General Archer’s aide was on the line and curtly told Isaac that he needed to be at the airport at seven the next morning. “The general has arranged a meeting with Avraham Har-Zion for 1:00,” he said, his voice clipped, “so you will have a little time before your meeting with the prime minister if you wish to visit your father. The jet will depart soon afterward to return you to Paris, where General Arc
her will expect a full report upon the situation in Jerusalem.”
Isaac agreed to meet the jet, then hung up. He stood in the little foyer for a long moment, knowing that he had come to a crossroads. In the name of international peace, he could follow Romulus’s plan and join the Universal Faith Movement. Thousands of Jews would watch as he and the prime minister accepted the UFM code on their Universal Chips, then they would do likewise, pledging their lives and loyalty to Romulus and the Universal Faith Movement.
Or he could refuse. But what would happen if he did? The IDF or Mossad should have sent him a message by now. He had not withheld much from the agent in the bar, so they knew about the spear, about the televised interview, and about Romulus’s belief that whoever held the spear would rule the world. And though he had not told the agent about the voices pouring from Romulus’s throat during that eerie ceremony, he planned to tell anyone who would listen when he returned to Jerusalem. They would not be able to doubt his sanity when they saw the light of earnestness in his eyes.
All the anxieties that had been lapping at his subconscious suddenly crested and crashed. Why would Romulus, a self-proclaimed man of peace, choose to fixate upon an object of violence and war? Why had his eyes sparked when he took the ancient relic in his hands? And how would he explain the legion of voices and languages that poured out of his throat? The ancient Jewish sages would say such voices were the work of demons.
Isaac closed his eyes and shook his head. He did not believe in magic or amulets or folk tales. He did not believe in demons, either, especially since Jewish tradition described them as shadowless, thumbless creatures that haunted trees, ruins, and toilets.
Yet he could not deny that what he had witnessed in the chateau came from a supernatural realm. His experience in the chateau’s great hall lay beyond the domain of technology. Technological things he could understand; he’d been trained to expect and circumvent computer wizardry. But until recently he had dismissed the supernatural, decreeing that neither God nor Satan had any place in his life.
The Spear of Tyranny Page 17