The Practical Spy
Page 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
The President had booked him on a military flight to Frankfurt. He spent a night in the VOQ and then was off to Tel Aviv where he received a cold reception from a low-level staffer.
“We understand you are working with the Saudis. Is it true?”
“I have been to Riyadh and chatted with King Saudi. He talked about blowing up a major building in Tel Aviv. Did you get the word?”
“Yes,” the staffer replied, adding, “The King might be in for a surprise. It is a very large office building, and the demolition is slated for noon tomorrow. You’re welcome to watch.”
“I hope it will be a step on the road to peace.”
“I wouldn’t know. Destruction of property doesn’t seem constructive if you get my drift.”
“I suppose there are many ways to achieve peace. I hope to have a word with the prime minister if that’s possible.”
“He wouldn’t dream of not speaking with you, the envoy from Saudi, messenger from our enemy.”
“I’m an American citizen. Possibly the term messenger is correct. But I am not your enemy.”
“Time will tell.”
He was dropped off without ceremony at the Shenkin Hotel, not the best in Tel Aviv, but centrally located and adjacent to the Nachalat Binyamin pedestrian area, a fine place for a walk in the splendid weather.
Orson dined alone, read a Faulkner novel he had brought along and turned in early after calling Delilah and letting her know he was in Israel. After a shower and breakfast the following morning, the same staffer called for him.
He was told the prime minister and other dignitaries awaited him near the site of the doomed structure. The two of them alighted at a sidewalk café where several government officials were enjoying breakfast. Orson was introduced all around to a less the less than friendly group.
The Prime Minister himself seemed cheerful and pointed out the structure the Saudi’s had designated. It was indeed a large office building just over half a block away. To Orson’s surprise office workers were coming and going and the building seemed to be fully occupied.
“How strange,” Orson said, almost to himself, then turned to the Prime Minister, “You haven’t evacuated the building.”
“Au contraire. We did for a full day, the time it took to find the explosives and dispose of them.”
Orson actually laughed. “I’m amazed,” he declared. “I didn’t know the Arabs were such fools. Tell me about it.”
“Dynamite was planted here and there in out of the way places, fairly well hidden. A cell phone call would have triggered multiple blasts. My experts don’t believe the charges would have brought the building down. Now you can return to Saudi and tell the King his evil plan has failed.”
“The King sincerely wants peace,” Orson replied. “When was the blast supposed to go off?”
“Noon our time.” He checked his watch. “About three hours from now.”
“Then there’s still time to evacuate the building.”
“Why should we? My experts have checked every nook and cranny.”
“It is a reckless leader who would play games with the lives of his citizens. If that building comes down at noon you will be the grand fool.”
“You doubt the skill of my skilled explosive experts?”
“You underestimate the skills of the Arabs. You consider them foolish camel jockeys. They have thousands of years of culture behind them, just as the Israelites. I am imploring you to evacuate that building. Its demise is meant as a hint of what is to come. It is simply a sacrifice on the altar of peace, a peace that would be good for Israel, for the Arab states and for the world. Please evacuate or face the deadly consequences.”
“We have attempted to check on your background, Orson Platt. We have found you to be a nobody, a drifter who once was a drinking companion of the person who now holds the title of King of Saudi Arabia. He inherited wealth and he inherited the title. He is no more a king than I am a pastry cook.”
“Perhaps you are a pastry cook. You have heard the expression ‘better safe than sorry.’”
The Prime Minister turned and barked orders in Hebrew at two of his underlings. Heads were raised in surprise among the small crowd of dignitaries. When his orders were ignored, the Prime Minister shouted again, this time in anger. Then he turned quietly to Orson. “We will evacuate, but who will be the goat? You or me?”
“The game’s afoot,” Orson replied with a smile.
Soon the workers came streaming out of the building. A man who Orson guessed headed the teams of demolition experts was chiding the prime minister in a rough manner. Orson was no Hebrew expert, but he understood enough to get the idea of the conversation. The Israelis enjoyed free speech at all levels.
The Prime Minister simply shrugged and indicated Orson. The man shouted in the American’s face in English, “You are a fool and you are making a fool of Israel. That building is spotless. I myself have gone over it.”
Orson took a seat at the sidewalk café and ordered coffee. The long wait began. He was largely ignored by Israeli officials, although a waitress chatted with him at length until one of the staffers whispered something in her ear. Three cups of coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich later, noon arrived and one staffer pointed to his watch and whooped out a cry of victory.
Thirty seconds later, a small rumbling could be heard, and the cornice of the building began to shower in small pieces to the street many stories below. Then silence.
The Prime Minister approached Orson and said, “So the team missed something. But there’s very likely no damage inside and I’m guessing repairs will be very minor. I’m certain your King is watching on TV and will drink himself into amnesia.”
“I’m guessing that was a warning. The Saudis probably imagined you would fall for the fake explosives and permit the building to be reoccupied. The main explosion should occur in twenty or thirty minutes. I’d keep everyone away from the building if I were you. Even your half-witted explosive experts.”
“You Arab son-of-a-bitch,” the Prime Minister growled, then stalked off.
The waiting was tense, but the building imploded almost half an hour later just as Orson had guessed. There was nothing left, just a smoking pile of rubble maybe thirty feet high.
The Prime Minister hurried to Orson’s table and shouted in his face, “You have some questions to answer. You seemed to know every step that was taken. So where will the next explosion be?”
Orson shook his head in the negative. “I have no idea.”
“The Arab dogs are paying you. I know that. So you can tell me now, or we’ll sweat it out of you.”
“I cannot tell you what I don’t know. I believe I’ll return to my hotel.”
“Return my ass. You’ll rot in an Israeli jail cell.”
He was led peacefully away by a uniformed officer who drove him to a small local prison facility, booked in the usual process – fingerprints, mug shots, strip search, issued orange prison clothing and locked in a small cell. Mary Warren had been spot on.