‘I’m afraid I . . . I, er, Stratton is right. It would affect my judgement, sir.’ Sumners looked down at the floor to hide his embarrassment. But there was still some fight left in him. If he were going down he would at least bring Stratton with him if he could. He looked up at Stratton, regaining some of his posture.
‘Are we to understand you want to remain in command of the ground operation?’
‘Unless you have anyone else in mind.’
‘But you’re a believer too,’ Sumners said accusingly.
‘Am I?’ Stratton replied coldly, looking him in the eye like a poker player, pushing the knife even deeper into Sumners. Stratton’s rock steady gaze had convinced everyone, even Sumners, of his doubt in Gabriel, and further illustrated his strength of character and power of leadership and Sumners despised him even more for it.
Sumners capitulated. He removed the photograph of Zhilev from his pocket and placed it on the table.
Sumners’ boss could see the private battle between the two men and although he did not entirely comprehend the politics behind it, it was now time to intervene. In truth, he had harboured doubts about Sumners’ ability to see this operation through almost immediately after he had given him his blessing. Stratton’s credentials for the job were obvious and he now understood why he used to be a favoured operative. The answer was simple. Sumners had been a desk agent all of his career and was meant to remain as such.
Sumners’ boss pushed the photograph across the table towards Stratton. ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Shall we get on with this operation?’ He thought about letting Sumners brief Stratton on the further details then decided against it. He got to his feet. ‘Stratton,’ he beckoned as he walked down the cabin fastening his jacket and smoothing out the sides.
Stratton unlocked his gaze from Sumners and followed.
Sumners looked down at his hands to find them both formed into tight fists. He unclenched them and then sensed Chalmers looking at him. Sumners forced a smile as if to shrug the incident away but Chalmers’ only response was to go back to his typing.
Sumners’ boss reached midway of the cabin and folded his arms as he faced Stratton. ‘Let’s appraise the situation so far,’ he said. ‘We don’t know where Zhilev is or where he’s heading, but I think the Middle East is as good a place to start as any, and our Israeli friends are the regional experts.We’ve told them we’re on the trail of a former Russian Spetsnaz operative who we believe has been employed by an Islamic terrorist organisation to instruct them on how to improve their bomb-making capabilities. We’re holding back Zhilev’s name for as long as we can because once the Israelis have that they’ll soon discover his brother was killed by Islamic terrorists, and then, of course, our story won’t hold much water - unless their imaginations run away with them, which Israeli intelligence is not famed for . . . We’re taking a risk by not telling them about the device but I believe it is justified for the moment. We’ll lose all control for one. The bottom line is there will be hell to pay if we screw this up . . .
‘You will be acting as our intelligence liaison officer while you’re here. The Israelis will not want you running around carrying on your own investigation. They won’t trust you, of course, and you should expect them to monitor you. They know we won’t have told them everything, which is why they will give you some leeway to move about in the hope of gaining information. I’ve suggested you be based in Jerusalem to start with because it’s the most central location and a good jumping-off point for all borders. Another reason for choosing Jerusalem is you need to be in the town of Ramallah by dawn tomorrow, which is about half an hour away by car. You need to be there without the Israelis knowing. In case you are not aware, Ramallah is the seat of the Palestinian authority and is surrounded by Israeli security forces, checkpoints, et cetera. Chalmers will fill you in on the details.’
Stratton looked over his shoulder to see Chalmers standing out of earshot halfway along the cabin waiting to be beckoned, holding a small canvas bag.
‘In Ramallah you’ll make contact with a man,’ Sumners’ boss went on. ‘He’ll be waiting for you at the lion wearing a wristwatch - apparently that will become obvious to you once you are in the town. He is a member of Islamic Jihad and is also working for us. I cannot advise you on the level of trust you can give this character. It’s Sumners’ idea. The man has played a rather large part in this saga and he may be of use.That will be up to you. His motives are convincing though. I think that’s about it.’
‘I don’t know Israel or the West Bank. How do I get into Ramallah?’
‘You’ll have some help, hopefully. At such short notice we’ve not been able to get in touch with our local agent, but we should manage by tonight. Any other questions, ask Chalmers. The little swot knows just about everything . . . Good luck,’ he said with a smile and walked back up the aircraft.
Chalmers took his cue, approached and took out the contents of the bag, handing them to Stratton as he described them. ‘This is a BBC press identity card that allows you to operate as a member of the press in the West Bank. It’ll make it easier for you to move through IDF checkpoints.There are two main checkpoints into Ramallah - there’s a third but it’s not advisable. Kalandia checkpoint is the only route Palestinians are allowed to drive through. The checkpoint on the other side of the town is known as the DCO and they will allow you in on the press pass, depending on the mood they’re in. The soldiers on the checkpoints are usually conscripts and therefore tend to carry the psychological baggage of the pressganged. Kalandia closes around six p.m., the DCO is open twenty-four hours a day. One credit card. Five thousand US dollars. Do you have receipts for the last twenty-four hours? I’ll take them off you now if you have.’
Stratton dug into an inside pocket of his jacket, produced a pile of paper and handed it to Chalmers who took it with a frown.
‘I take it these have not been itemised?’
‘When do you think I had time to do that?’
Chalmers pocketed the papers and handed Stratton the cash. ‘Gabriel doesn’t know about your visit to Ramallah and we should keep it that way. One satellite phone with numbers pre-programmed . . . One passport . . . Give me your other one.’ They exchanged passports. It was obvious they did not want the Israelis knowing where Stratton had been in the past. ‘And a précis on the Israeli intelligence services, which you should read and leave on the plane . . . Any questions?’
‘I was hoping I’d get a gun.’
‘The Israelis won’t let you carry one. Anything else?’
‘Yeah.What was the name of the pope who started the first crusade?’
‘Urban the Second. Anything else?’
‘. . . No.’
‘Good luck then,’ Chalmers said and turned on his heels to head back to his perch in front of his computer.
Smart arse, Stratton thought. With the personality of a turnip he’ll probably go far.
Stratton glanced through the paper on Mossad and Shin Bet. He knew a little about both services having worked on a case two years before of an IRA sniper hired by the Palestinians because their own were so poorly skilled. The sniper hit fourteen soldiers in twenty-five minutes at an Israeli checkpoint in El Arik near the town of Ofra killing ten of them before making his way out of the country using a well-planned escape route. Because of the expert shooting and high-quality design of the hide which had been carefully prepared over several days, and, more damningly, the fact the sniper left his weapon behind, not a Palestinian habit but certainly an IRA modus operandi, Israeli intelligence directed their suspicions towards the Irish Republican terrorist group. British intelligence eventually narrowed it down to two suspects but there was not enough evidence to pin it solidly on either. No further action was taken. A few weeks later, a rumour surfaced that the IRA had warned the Israelis if they attempted any kind of retaliatory assassination, a standard Mossad reaction, it would be brutally answered by a campaign against Jewish interests in Britain. No retribution against the IRA was
made.
Stratton put the paper down on a seat, picked up his bag and joined Gabriel at the door.
‘You get any sleep?’ he asked.
‘A little.’
Gabriel looked much the same: tired, red-eyed, stressed. Stratton was almost getting used to the sight of his unhealthy condition and thought of it as normal.
‘You know, if you wanted to pull out of this, you could,’ Stratton said quietly, checking they were out of earshot of everyone.
‘I have to see it through.’
‘Why? If it’s written, if you’ve seen the end, why do you have to go? Let the end come to you.’
‘I don’t claim to understand everything about this phenomenon. We’re here to stop this madman from doing whatever it is he feels he needs to do, and we must continue to try.’
‘But you said you saw the end.What does it matter? We will fail.’
‘You obviously understand this better than I do,’ Gabriel said harshly.
‘Then tell me.’
‘I did see the end. An end. My end. And it will come, and soon. But that is all the more reason why we must find him. Why do you look so worried, Stratton? I did not see your end.’
Stratton wanted to tell him that where Gabriel went, he went, and that if he saw the light, heard the pop and felt the wind, then he would too, but Stratton didn’t want to even hint at the calamity. ‘As long as you’re okay to continue . . . Let’s go.’
They stepped down out of the aircraft and on to the tarmac. It was sunny but not as warm as Stratton had expected, even for a Middle East winter.
Manachem Raz sat beside his driver, both watching the two men leave the aircraft and walk towards them. Raz climbed out of the car and his driver did likewise.
Raz had been told he would be meeting two men, one British intelligence, the other American, and the Brit had the seniority. As Raz watched them approach, however, it was an unexpected picture. He had an image in his head of a slick pair of polished prep-school types but that was completely erased as this odd pair walked towards him, one old and the other more like a field operative than an intelligence officer. Raz’s eyes never left Stratton, dissecting and gauging every aspect of him, and continued to do so even when his face broke into a smile and he offered his hand.
‘Welcome to Israel,’ Raz said in strongly accented but confident English. Stratton shook his wiry hand.
‘My name is Manachem Raz.’ The words rolled off his tongue as if through a gorse bush. ‘I am head of Shin Bet, Islamic Division, Jerusalem.’
‘John Stratton, and this is Gabriel Stockton.’
Raz shook Gabriel’s hand and immediately noted how unwell and distracted he looked. ‘Can I have your passports, please?’
Stratton and Gabriel dug their passports out and handed them to Raz who quickly flipped through them, examining the pictures and details and finally checking the stamps. He looked at Stratton as if he knew the passport had just been manufactured on the C130.
‘Are you carrying arms or anything that could be considered as contraband?’ Raz asked.
‘No,’ Stratton replied.
‘Please excuse me, but we all have rules to live by.’ The driver stepped forward holding a metal detector and moved the device over Stratton, then did the same to Gabriel. He checked each time the bleep went off before continuing, finding nothing illegal. Raz kept his smiling eyes on Stratton, both aware he was merely pissing on his territory and ensuring Stratton understood who was in charge. When the driver finished, Raz stepped aside and gestured towards the car.
‘Let’s go,’ he said brusquely. ‘We can talk in the car.’
Gabriel was about to follow Raz when Stratton put a hand on his arm to stop him. ‘We’ll be there in a minute,’ he said, looking Raz in the eye. Gabriel looked between the men.
Raz understood the move was simply intended to snatch the control away from him, if only for a moment, to make a point. He admired anyone who took a stand against him but only if they could carry it off. It remained to be seen if this younger man had any metal to him.
Raz stepped away and stood beside his car out of earshot while the driver climbed inside.
‘Did Sumners ask you not to confide in the Israelis about any aspect of this operation?’
‘Yes,’ Gabriel said, then he turned to glance over at Raz who was watching them.‘This a power-pissing contest?’ Gabriel asked, seeing through Stratton’s reason for holding back a moment.
‘Something like that.’
‘He’s a pushy-looking son-of-a-bitch,’ Gabriel agreed.
‘I did want to say something to you,’ Stratton said.
‘I think you’re a brave bastard for continuing with this op, in the light of what you know. A lot of people would have folded. I’m still not sure why I’m here.’
‘Don’t bullshit me, Stratton. Anyway, this might be a bit premature. I’d like to run for the hills, and I just might yet.’
‘I’m coming with you if you do.’
Gabriel smiled, this time looking Stratton directly in the eye. Whatever he felt about Stratton, he knew he was not the kind of man who would desert a partner under any circumstances. That was no small thing. In fact it was pretty damn big in his eyes.
‘We pissed on him long enough?’ Gabriel asked, good humouredly.‘I’m looking forward to a nice bath and a comfortable bed.’
‘Yeah,’ Stratton said, tapping him on the side of his shoulder, and they headed for the car.
As Manachem Raz watched them he wondered how he was going to deal with this unexpected and, frankly, strange development. That morning, during the weekly meeting between senior members of Mossad, Shin Bet, the army and police, he had been handed this assignment which required him to look after two characters from MI6 and the CIA arriving in Israel on the scent of a Russian mercenary explosives expert. The unofficial feeling of some of the council members was that the visit was another example of the post-9/11 programme of commitment by the West to combat international Islamic terrorism and show solidarity with Israel. Not that there was anything wrong with that, nor did the Israelis not take it seriously. All and any help was appreciated. However, the general ignorance and insensitivity of the Europeans, British and Americans to the Israeli cause never failed to astound Raz, and, more often than not, anger him. But he was forced to suffer it, not only because Israel needed the West’s support, but also their approval, more so now than ever, and Israel had to accept the various pros and cons that came hand-in-hand with that support.
Things had changed a great deal in Raz’s twenty-one-year career in Shin Bet, and the army before that. In the early days of Middle East terrorism, it appeared to most other nations to be primarily an Israeli problem and so they were left pretty much alone to deal with it as they saw fit. But now that the West was as much a target as Israel, the big two in the fight, namely America and Britain, wanted to show Israel the correct way to deal with the situation, as if they suddenly knew what they were doing and possessed all the answers.The British should have been the easiest to deal with since they were the most experienced in terrorism and the Middle East, but that was not always the case, as far as the Israelis were concerned. Ironically, the Israelis had modelled Mossad on British military intelligence after spending several years as their bitter enemy. It was no secret that the current international intervention was due in part to the perception that Israel, with its heavy-handed tactics, was in many ways as much a part of the problem. Israel had little choice but to bow to outside pressure or at least to be seen to, since the country practically depended on an annual three and a half billion dollar handout from America, and much more than that in recent years. There was also the perceived increased threat to Israeli national security due in no small part to the stirring of the terrorist pot caused by the American-led invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq,Western threats against Iran and Syria and the ‘occupation’ of the Middle East and North African oil states by Western companies. Mossad and Shin Bet had enjoyed a great deal
of assistance from British and American intelligence over the years; however, any help these days often came at a price in the form of concessions to the Palestinians and Israel’s other Arab neighbours. That ran counter to everything the average Israeli had been indoctrinated with from childhood concerning the threat from its neighbours to their very survival. This resentment of Western tampering was even stronger in Shin Bet because of its more right-wing politics. It was Raz’s nature, as well as a prerequisite of his employment, to be suspicious, but when he laid eyes on this odd pair, he became convinced that the American and British story about a Russian bomb-making instructor was bullshit.
Raz had lived his whole life on his intuition and he was no ordinary man. He was ruthless but not exceptionally so by Shin Bet standards. Planning and selecting targets for execution was a regular activity which had dulled his conscience over the years and Shin Bet was very much behind the force that maintained the right to torture suspects for the purpose of gathering information. Raz had spent years as an interrogator in Lebanon and had become adept at interpreting the four prescribed legal methods of torture in Israel, namely shaking, sleep deprivation, music and cramped positions. The interpretations of these guidelines were broad and many prisoners had died from exhaustive combinations of them, although Raz could say, with his hand on his heart, none of those were his direct responsibility. Many of his comrades regarded the Palestinian as a low form of life and therefore brutalising them was not a human-rights issue. Raz did not feel the same way but he could never share the reason for that sentiment with any of his colleagues.
Most traditional Hebrew names for people have meanings and Raz’s was tailor-made for him. Raz means secret and, living up to the reputation of the family name, everything about him had some mystery attached. His wife of twenty-one years and his two children, both now in their late teens, knew he worked for Shin Bet, but that was the extent of their knowledge. He told them nothing of what he did or where he did it, and they knew better than to ask. There was very little routine in his life, which was essential for his personal survival; he left his house at any time of the day or night and returned hours or days later. One of the many rules of Shin Bet is that an agent cannot work near where he lives, and since Raz’s patch had been Jerusalem for nearly a decade now, he had chosen to live with his family in the town of Kokhav Ya’ir, east of Tel Aviv, on the border with the West Bank. Selecting Kokhav was not just because of its convenience. Raz had always been keen for promotion, as were most Shin Bet agents, and the competition was tough. Kokhav was populated by many high-ranking army and security members and considered somewhat exclusive to those fraternities. His promotion to head of the Islamic division in Jerusalem was in no small part due to careful fraternisation with selected neighbours.
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