Snap Shot

by A. J. Quinnell

  He watched her curiously as she sat down and waved away the menu.

  ‘Can I be very extravagant, Walter?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I would like caviar, lobster thermidor and champagne - Dom Pérignon.’

  Walter’s eyes widened, then he nodded to the hovering Maître d’. ‘So what are we celebrating?’

  ‘Oh, nothing special,’ she replied nonchalantly. ‘I’m just feeling happy. Perhaps because I’m lunching with you. I’ve missed you.’

  Walter grunted sceptically. ‘You’ve managed to hide it well. I haven’t seen you for weeks.’

  ‘I’ve been terribly busy. Now, you go ahead and eat. I don’t want you keeling over from starvation. But first, is there any news of David?’

  Walter popped an olive into his mouth and nodded. He was still puzzled. ‘Yes. Things are going well. I hope he’ll be finished and out in four or five days.’

  She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘You’ll let me know immediately?’

  ‘Of course.’ He studied her again and then said abruptly, ‘You’re pregnant!’

  Her look of surprise was comical. ‘How on earth . . .?’

  Walter was smiling complacently. ‘It’s obvious and logical. You’re radiant and happy when you should be tense and nervous. Only one thing could cause that. I’m very happy for you and David.’ He stood up ponderously, moved round the table and kissed her on both cheeks. She was suddenly demure and embarrassed.

  Back in his chair Walter asked:

  ‘When did you find out?’

  She grinned. ‘Just now. That’s why I was late. The doctor had some emergency and I had to wait an hour.’

  ‘So you are totally forgiven. Are you surprised?’

  ‘In a way. We’ve been hoping for months.’ She shook a finger at him. ‘It’s all your fault, sending him away at the wrong times.’

  The waiter brought the caviar and the champagne and Walter solemnly proposed a toast to the forthcoming baby and stole some of the caviar.

  ‘When will you marry?’

  ‘As soon as possible. It takes a couple of weeks to get the licences.’

  For a moment a look of sadness crossed her face.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Gideon. It will make him very unhappy.’

  ‘He still writes?’

  ‘Yes, on the first day of every month, and always the same.’

  It was not the first time she had discussed the problem with Walter. Gideon Galili had not accepted the break-up of their engagement the way she had hoped. At first he had been stunned and then relentlessly determined. He had never broken down into self pity or despair but had calmly, almost icily, attempted to win her back. She had told him that she would not be marrying Munger for many months. She could not tell him why. He saw this as an opportunity. In the beginning, during her brief visit to Israel to break the news, he had debated with her logically, pointing out that one marriage to a combat photographer had never really worked. Why should a second be any different? She talked about love and he answered that his love for her was so strong, so all-encompassing that in the course of time it would attract, like a magnet, a reciprocal love from her. He was quietly positive about it and she could not shake that belief. She tried to get angry, telling him it was irretrievably finished. He was young and handsome and successful. A Major already at thirty-one. There would be other women - younger women. He would fall in love again. In her desperation to make him understand she had screamed at him, trying to shake his stoical attitude. Her anger had washed over him like waves over a rock. He was determined. He would not accept his loss of her.

  A month later he visited Cyprus while Munger was away on assignment. For three days he stayed at the Forest Peak Hotel. They were the unhappiest days of Ruth’s life. He was at the same time both determined and pathetic. His background and rigid military training together with success in his career had made him a man incapable of accepting failure and the loss of Ruth to another man represented the ultimate in failure. On the other hand his obsessive love for her reduced him at times to a maudlin boy. During the first two days they must have talked for over ten hours. Several times he was in tears; literally pleading with her. Seeing his torment and being unable to help him almost broke her heart. She reminded him of the old clichés: ‘Time is a great healer’ and ‘Out of sight, out of mind’. Then she saw his determination. He insisted that he would never forget her, never give up hope, never accept the loss of her. He had planned to stay at Platres for two weeks, but after the second day she could not face him. She took her phone off the hook and locked the gates of the driveway. He spent the entire day standing outside the gates. He did not call out or do anything. He just stood there. She could see him from the bedroom window. A tall, ramrod-straight figure, his dark, handsome face a study in melancholy.

  That night in desperation she phoned Walter for advice. After hearing the story he told her to go to sleep and not to worry. He would do something about it. She begged him not to make it hard for Gideon and he gently reassured her. He, above all, had an inkling of what the young Israeli was going through. After breaking the connection she felt a little easier but she still could not sleep throughout the night. At eight in the morning she rang the hotel and the receptionist told her that Gideon had checked out two hours before and taken a taxi to the airport. She immediately rang Walter and he told her that sometime during the night Gideon would have received a phone call from his squadron commander ordering his immediate return for a specific mission. Gideon would suspect nothing, and, with the current situation in the Lebanon, a mission would certainly be arranged. Even the squadron commander would not know the background of the sudden recall.

  Ruth thanked him warmly and hung up praising God that Walter had such powerful connections. Half an hour later a taxi delivered a dozen long-stemmed red roses and a letter. It was from Gideon explaining his urgent recall and how he had tried in vain to phone her. Also that he would write to her every month until she was married.

  The letters were always the same. They arrived during the first week of the month and they stated that he remained unattached and was waiting.

  ‘Perhaps he thinks that something might happen to Munger,’ Walter suggested. ‘A lot of combat photographers get killed.’

  She shrugged, ‘It may be in his mind. I just get the impression he thinks that one day I’ll come to my senses.’

  ‘He’s obsessed,’ Walter remarked, it’s not unusual - you know that from your experience in psychology.’

  She nodded glumly. ‘A few months ago I wouldn’t have believed that love could run so deep.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘But with David I’ve found out that there is no limit.’ She brightened up. ‘After we’re married, Gideon will accept the situation. It will break his obsession.’

  The waiter arrived with the lobster and a two inch thick porterhouse steak for Walter. He had just savoured the first mouthful when the Maître d’ approached and informed him that there was an urgent phone call from his office. He grunted in irritation, gave instructions for his steak to be kept hot arid told Ruth that it would only take a minute.

  But it was twenty minutes and she had finished her lobster before he returned. As he sat down she looked at his face and went cold.

  ‘It’s trouble?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘David?’

  ‘Not directly.’

  ‘Tell me, Walter.’

  Walter sighed and then waved away the plate that the waiter was attempting to put in front of him. That single action spelled out exactly, the gravity of his news.

  ‘Misha Wigoda has been kidnapped in Beirut.’ He had no hesitation in mentioning names. He knew that Munger told her everything. It worried him but he had to accept it.

  ‘When?’

  Walter glanced at his watch. ‘Just under an hour ago.’

  ‘Was it the PLO?’

  Walter sighed. ‘We’re not sure, but we do know that SDECE is involved
. Janine Lesage was on the scene.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Ruth slumped back in her chair. She now knew all about Janine Lesage and how she had been somehow involved in Duffs death. She had even met her once, many years before, at a party in Hong Kong. Munger had told her that one day he or Walter would even the score. Now Walter said with a heavy voice:

  ‘I shouldn’t have waited. I should have taken care of her. She’s an evil, malignant woman.’

  ‘You’ve warned David?’

  He looked up. ‘We’re doing that now. We think he’s between Basrah and Baghdad.’ He saw the panic in her face.

  ‘She’ll make Wigoda talk, Walter. You know that. You have to find David and get him out!’

  He leaned over and patted her arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find him. There’s time. Wigoda is a highly-trained agent. Yes, he’ll talk, but it will take time. Maybe days, even weeks.’

  She was crying now. She took a handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘But you can’t be sure. It could be only hours. God knows what they’ll do to him. They’re animals. David could walk into their arms. You’ve got to warn him.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he repeated. ‘We’ve contacted our people in Baghdad. As soon as David gets to his hotel he’ll be told. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘When, Walter? When will he get to his hotel?’

  Walter shrugged. ‘We can’t be sure. We know that he checked out of the El Jamhorya Hotel in Basrah. He may have gone to the war front on his Way to Baghdad. We’re trying to find out.’

  She dried her eyes and composed herself. ‘I’ll go home now. You’ll let me know if there’s any news? Any news, Walter? Good or bad. I’ll stay at home.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Outside he offered to have Spiro drive her to Platres. Her own car could be sent with another driver. She thanked him but refused. She was all right. He stood by his Mercedes and watched as she backed her Renault out. Before she drove away she called out: ‘Thank you for the lunch. Please call me the instant you have news.’

  ‘I will.’

  With an expression of sadness and something else he watched the back of her car as it pulled away. She glanced in her rear view mirror and caught the expression.

  It took her an hour to reach Platres. The first thing she did was to make herself a cup of coffee. She kept seeing in her mind the expression that she had glimpsed in Walter’s face: sadness and something else. As she raised the cup to her lips it came to her and she froze at the implication: the something else was guilt. The cup dropped from her fingers and shattered on the tiles and she screamed as the hot coffee scalded her legs.

  Walter was not going to warn him. He was hoping that Wigoda would hold out long enough for Munger to complete his assignment . Walter Blum had weighed in the balance his duty and the life of his friend, and he had come down on the side of duty.

  She rushed to the phone and had already dialled the first digits of the Walen Trading number when the realisation struck her that it would be no good. Walter would lie to her. He had decided on his course. He would reassure her and make promises, but he would do nothing. Slowly she cradled the phone and forced herself to think rationally. She went back to the kitchen and swept up the broken cup and made herself more coffee while her mind ranged over the possibilities. She could try to get a phone call through to Baghdad; she knew he always stayed at the Sinbad Hotel. She could call the American Embassy in Nicosia. The CIA man who had told her of Duffs death was still there. Maybe he could help. Finally though she accepted that any such moves could be dangerous. Baghdad was seething with suspicion and deceit. By a precipitous move she herself could put Munger in peril.

  There was only one way. She would warn him herself. She would fly to Baghdad and find him. The only question was the flight schedules. She knew there was no direct flight. He always went in through Amman. The visa was no problem: months ago, using her contacts in the US Embassy in Nicosia, she had obtained visas for as many Middle East countries as possible. She had always had the fear of Munger being wounded while working. If it happened she wanted no delays in getting to him. Of course, for some countries such as Iran and South Yemen, it was impossible, but she had valid, visas for the Lebanon, Jordan, Syria and Iraq.

  She ran back to the phone and called the airport at Larnaca and, after a frustrating delay, discovered there was a flight at 7 pm to Beirut. From there she could connect with a Jordanian Airways flight JD 407 to Baghdad via Amman. It was a two-hour drive to Larnaca so she just had time.

  She went to the bedroom and threw clothes into a bag small enough to carry onto the plane. Then she opened a bedside drawer and took out a small 8mm semi-automatic Beretta. Duff had given it to her years ago because of the time she had to spend alone. She knew how to use it. She also knew all about the security checks at airports but, living for years with combat photographers, she was aware of the methods they used to smuggle rolls of film.

  In the kitchen she found a square tin box an inch deep and six inches across. She went to the study and fetched several sheets of carbon paper. She wrapped these around the Beretta, so disguising its shape. Then she put it into the tin box and filled up the corners with a cigarette lighter several lipsticks and some coins - all metal. The tin box was then packed at the bottom of her vanity case. She was confident that the airport X-ray checks would indicate no ominous shape.

  At 4.30 pm she was in the Renault and racing down the mountain towards Larnaca.

  *

  Janine Lesage arrived at the house on the outskirts of Damour fifteen minutes after the van. It had taken her longer to negotiate the PLO and Leftist roadblocks. Jamil Mahmoud was waiting for her in the dusty courtyard. His men had formed a protective screen around the house. She climbed out of the Mercedes, wearing black slacks and a black short-sleeved blouse. She carried a small black bag. She smiled at him.

  ‘Well done. It went like clockwork.’

  He grinned back, ‘I have done as you instructed. He is prepared. You want me to torture him now? I’m an expert.’ His eyes gleamed, as he said it.

  She shook her head. ‘Maybe later; if it’s necessary. If he’s what I think he is, he could resist physical abuse for days. I don’t have much time.’

  ‘So?’

  She held up the black bag. ‘I’ll use a truth serum. With luck it will unlock his tongue very quickly.’

  Jamil nodded sagely. ‘Ah, yes. I’ve heard about it-sodium penta . . . something.’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘That’s old-fashioned. Nowadays we use pure valium.’

  ‘Valium!’ He was astonished. ‘My wife takes that to calm her down.’ He grinned. ‘She takes a lot of calming.’

  ‘I can imagine. But this will be a far greater dose -20 milligrams straight into the vein.’ She turned to her bodyguard-driver who was standing by the Mercedes.

  ‘Wait here. Keep an eye on things.’ To Jamil she said: ‘Let’s go.’

  Misha Wigoda was lying naked on his back on a wooden table. His legs and arms were splayed and bound tightly, the cords already biting into his wrists and ankles and making them swell. There was nothing in the room except the table he lay on and a single unshaded light bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling.

  He turned his head at the sound of the door opening and saw Janine Lesage and Jamil Mahmoud behind her. He kept his face expressionless as she moved up to the table and put a black bag beside him. Jamil took up position near his feet and looked on with interest.

  Janine first checked the cords binding him down and nodded in satisfaction. Then she reached down and lifted his penis and smiled. It was circumcised. She dug a long, red-painted finger nail into its exposed head and his back arched in agony but he made no sound. She smiled again and said in Arabic:

  ‘Melim Jaheen. You are not an Arab. You are a Jew and you work for Mossad. I want some answers and you will provide them. You know that, don’t you? One way or another you will provide them. Talk now and save yoursel
f untold pain.’ She looked into his eyes. Unblinking, they looked back.

  She nodded as if to confirm a prognosis, then she opened her bag and took out a syringe and a rubber-capped phial containing a colourless liquid. Jamil watched in fascination as she pushed the needle through the rubber top and drew out the liquid. As Misha saw the syringe his head straightened. He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes narrowed in concentration. She knew he was remembering his training; trying to compartmentalise his mind. Isolate and hide those things about which he must not talk,

  Quickly she leaned over and gripped his arm just below the elbow, pressing hard with her thumb to bring up the vein. He was plump and twice she missed the vein and curbed. She was hurrying too much. She took a deep breath and concentrated and, on the third attempt, the needle found its mark and she carefully depressed the plunger, watching the graduations on the syringe until she had pumped in exactly 20 milligrams. She then took a roll of tape from her bag and carefully bound the syringe to his arm so that the needle remained in the vein.

  For the next few minutes she watched his eyes closely. She was waiting for him to enter a state of ptosis when involuntarily the eyelids would half closes and his mind would lose all its natural inhibitions. He would be awake and aware but his subconscious would be exposed and the shackles of his thinking, logical mind would be cast off.

  It took just under five minutes. He kept his gaze fixed on a spot on the ceiling but suddenly the eyelids flickered and dropped. She reached forward and, with her thumb, lifted one of them. The eye was glazed, the pupil dilated. He was ready.

  She asked him questions first in Arabic and then English. He remained silent and she knew that the tiny portion of his mind that was still lucid was fighting a battle with the mists that engulfed it. The first words he said were in English - a mumbled phrase that she had to bend over him to hear. She had asked what day it was and he replied: ‘Never on Sunday.’

  She laughed. All kinds of things could come out of the subconscious. Today was Tuesday.

  For the next hour she moved through the maze. Twice she had to inject more valium to keep him in a state of ptosis. She was impatient but forced herself to go slowly. She only wanted one answer. As the minutes passed her frustration grew. He would ramble about his childhood, old school friends, his mother, a long-ago car accident, a woman. Whenever she skirted close to his work he became incoherent, the pressure in his brain contorting his face. He had been trained and conditioned for just such a moment and she knew that she could not extract any detailed information about his work. But she did not want to - she only wanted one answer: one name.