By Dawn's Early Light

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  If they are purging Moscow of Jews, I’m frightened, Daniel. Am I safe?

  She pressed Send, then stared at the keyboard and nibbled on the edge of her nails. She had not tried to contact Daniel since the night Vladimir had frightened her into breaking the crystal vase, but she could not continue in this uncertainty much longer.

  She turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of orange juice, an unbelievable luxury Vladimir delighted in obtaining for her. She poured a glass and drank it mechanically, her eyes fixed to the computer screen. Please, please respond. Tell me what to do.

  She jumped when the computer beeped softly, then grimaced at her own skittishness. Setting her glass in the sink, she moved to the laptop and retrieved the message.

  Greetings, Texas.

  Do not fear for your personal safety. We altered your national ID records, as well as your mother’s. If anyone checks, your mother was Elizabeth Harris, your grandmother Edna Williams. Your secret should be safe.

  I understand that you do not know the agenda of G’s meeting. But has he mentioned anything about a timeline? Is he operating on a schedule?

  Most important—has he done anything at all unusual in the last few days?

  We are still praying for you.

  Alanna nervously tapped the keys as Daniel’s questions echoed in the stillness of her mind. Vladimir never told her anything, so she was practically useless as an informant. She should never have allowed herself to be seduced by the position, privilege, and power of an important man. But unless he went away and took his men with him, she did not see how she could escape.

  Those thoughts brought others in their wake as she typed her answer:

  G. is an erratic man; one day is never quite like another. As to timing, he will only tell me that things will be dramatically different for us after the first of the year.

  Please, Daniel, you’ve got to get me out of here before then.

  Whatever he’s planning, I know it can’t be good. My skin crawls to think of it, and lately there’s been a dark edge to his moods that I can’t seem to lift no matter what I do.

  Thanks for the prayers. I never had much use for prayer myself, but right now I’ll take all the help I can get.

  Don’t forget about me, Daniel. I can be patient, but I can feel an angry storm brewing, and Gogol is at its center. God help anyone who gets caught in the vortex.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Jerusalem

  1650 hours

  MICHAEL ASKED DEVORAH TO DRIVE TO A SAFE PLACE WHERE THEY COULD NOT be spied upon, and for a moment her mind went blank. Like all Israeli soldiers, she was sensitive to the threat of public places, but Michael seemed to be more paranoid than even the most suspicious Israeli soldier. She finally turned onto the road that would lead them deep into Me’a She’arim, home to her father and a community of other Orthodox Jews.

  Michael chuckled when he realized where she was taking him. “Are you sure your father won’t mind you bringing me here?” He flashed a blond brow in her direction. “He may not feel as hospitable toward me in the light of day.”

  “My father is at the yeshiva.” Devorah glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “But his housekeeper will be present. We will be properly chaperoned, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “I’m not in the least worried.” Michael cast a paranoid glance out the window as he spoke. “I just want to be out of range from your military intelligence types.”

  “Then you will be safe in my father’s house.” She turned onto Etyopya Street, then parked before the small stone house and led Michael through the front door. After calling a greeting to her father’s surprised housekeeper, Devorah motioned Michael toward the dining room and asked Rivka for something cool to drink. Eager to be of use, the housekeeper hurried away.

  Standing beside the table, Michael watched the housekeeper go with concern in his eyes. “Aren’t you worried about her overhearing?”

  “Rivka is almost completely deaf,” Devorah answered, sinking into a chair. “She will watch us, but she will not hear. Your secrets will remain safe.”

  Michael took the seat across from her, then pulled a laptop computer and a manila folder from his attaché case. “My contact,” he said, patting the computer as if it were alive. “I call him Daniel.”

  “Like the prophet?”

  He gave her a lopsided smile as he opened the machine and powered it on. “You could say that.”

  When the machine finished booting, he typed in a command, then looked up and caught her eye. “You didn’t ask what I did yesterday, so I’ll tell you—as long as you understand that this information cannot be shared until we confirm it. My friend Daniel is a genius, but sometimes he operates on instinct and conviction, not fact.”

  “He is an American?”

  “Yes, but he does not work for the government. He does, however, communicate with President Stedman. Stedman trusts Daniel, and so do I. He hasn’t failed me yet.”

  He turned the computer to face her, and Devorah frowned as she studied the image on the screen. She was staring at a photograph of a soldier, a compact man with startling blue eyes, European features, a determined expression, and more decorations on his uniform than she could decipher.

  “A German?”

  “A Russian. That is Vladimir Vasilievich Gogol, Russia’s minister of defense and the man who sent Dyakonov to take out the Afghan government in 1979. Daniel believes, as do I, that two days ago Gogol sent Dyakonov to Jerusalem to eliminate the Israeli government.”

  “Why would a Russian general want to destroy Israel?”

  Michael folded his arms on the table. “Because Russian President Chapaev is weeks, perhaps only days, away from death. Everyone in Moscow knows Gogol is running the country and has been for months. Three days ago, Gogol convened a covert meeting with the leading Arab powers and convinced them to sign a treaty of cooperation and a resolution against Israel. I have not seen the document, but Daniel is certain it will soon be debated in the UN Security Council. If Gogol and his allies can force a Security Council vote on the resolution, the United Nations may authorize sending troops against Israel.”

  “And this resolution censures Israel for—what?” Devorah spoke calmly, but with that eerie sense of detachment that comes with an awareness of impending disaster. She knew the answer, but she needed to hear Michael say the words.

  “Israel’s unwillingness to vacate the disputed territories. The UN will insist that Israel surrender the military bases in the West Bank.”

  “My country cannot survive without those bases. We’ve already given up so much; any more would be suicide. Without the West Bank, an enemy could cut our nation in half in a matter of hours with only a tank assault—”

  “I know. Gogol knows it, too. He will move against Israel no matter what Israel does.”

  Reed’s words fell into the silence with the weight of stones in still water. Devorah stared at the man on the computer screen as a chilly black silence surrounded them.

  “Why?” The pulsing knot within her demanded an answer. “Israel is a small country. We could not possibly defend ourselves against an attack of combined Russian and Arab troops.”

  Michael reached out and probably would have taken her hand had she not pulled it away. “Each nation has its own reasons,” he said, a light bitterness in his voice. “The Muslim countries see the destruction of Israel as a spiritual and moral imperative. Russia needs Arab oil if she is going to regain her status as a superpower. And Gogol is the personification of ambition. He also hates the Jews.”

  Michael pulled a bound report from the manila folder and slid it across the table. After opening the cover, Devorah found herself staring at a dossier on Gogol.

  “Vladimir Gogol, age 58, was born in Moscow, in the very shadow of the Kremlin,” Michael said, summing up the information on the page before her. “A former commander of the Russian special forces in Afghanistan, he spent the ’80s cementing the Russo-Iraqi political
alliance. He wooed Saddam Hussein with guns and anthrax and promises to keep the UN inspection teams off Hussein’s back. In return, he was promoted from Russian foreign minister to minister of defense. Now he is running the country during Chapaev’s illness and is poised to take control if and when the president dies.” The cold edge of irony filled Reed’s voice. “Chapaev is not an obstacle. When Gogol is ready, the president of Russia will suffer a sudden heart attack or some other illness, and Gogol will be elected to stand in his place. There’s no doubt, Gogol is firmly in control.”

  “Personality?” Devorah murmured.

  “Pragmatic, determined, intensely logical and decisive. He believes he can achieve the impossible, and he has done everything he has set out to do—thus far. He loves to move mountains—and he has moved more than a few in his lifetime.”

  “Weaknesses?”

  “Only one we know of—he has a susceptibility to beautiful American blondes, the classic Grace Kelly type. Believe it or not, he has an American mistress, whom he appears to treat with kindness. He keeps her tucked away in a Moscow hotel suite, and he spoils her rotten. When we first heard rumors that Gogol was attempting to buy a sizeable diamond, we thought he intended to give the stone to his lady friend.”

  Devorah dropped the dossier to the table. “You’ve lost me, Captain. We were talking about war and Russia, so why are we talking now about diamonds and women?”

  Michael’s hand fell upon the computer. “Daniel has a contact in Brussels, a man loosely affiliated with the worldwide diamond syndicate. A Russian military officer known to be working for Gogol has been making discreet inquiries about a flawless diamond of at least two hundred carats. He is offering three to five million euros for a suitable stone.”

  Devorah’s mouth dropped open. “That’s unbelievable. The Russian economy is so weak, I’m surprised anyone in the military has access to that kind of money.”

  A tinge of sadness colored Michael’s eyes as he leaned toward her. “Have you heard, Devorah, about the persecution of Jews in Moscow? Daniel tells me that Jews are being rounded up and taken away in vans, much like they were in Stalin’s Russia. If they are convicted of whatever trumped-up charges are brought against them, their property is confiscated by the government—Gogol’s government.” He shot her a twisted smile. “Are you beginning to see how Gogol could be financing the purchase of this diamond?”

  Devorah closed her eyes as the terrifying realization washed over her. Scenes from Nazi Germany and Stalin’s Russia played on the backs of her eyelids, sepia-toned images of weeping women, gray-bearded men in prayer shawls, small children clinging to their parents’ hands as they were pulled away and forced into prison work camps.

  Reed’s voice broke into her thoughts. “We need to find out what’s happening in Russia. We must know if Gogol is the mysterious diamond buyer and what he intends to do with the stone. Heads of state, even wealthy heads of state, don’t usually flaunt diamonds of that size and quality, so it’s possible Gogol is planning to use the diamond for some technological purpose. Diamonds are now used in space flight, supercomputers, x-ray detectors— the list is endless. Gogol could even be developing a new kind of laser weapon that might require a diamond of that size.”

  She stared at him in amazement. “You’re talking as if you expect me to have some interest in this.”

  “You ought to be very interested.” He pulled the laptop toward him and typed in another command, then turned the screen so she could see the document on the screen. “This information came from Daniel just yesterday. It’s a dossier on Devorah Cohen, a sergeant major in the Israeli Defense Forces, age 35. Father is Baram Cohen, rabbi and teacher at the Toldot Aharon Yeshiva in Jerusalem, brother is Asher Cohen, a lieutenant in the Israeli Air Force.”

  Devorah thrust out her hand. “May I see that?”

  Michael turned, blocking her grasp. “Here’s the really interesting part—Devorah’s uncle is Oskar Cohen, a diamond dealer in Brussels, Belgium, with residences in Antwerp, London, and Jerusalem. Oskar Cohen has a daughter, Lila, who works in the Brussels diamond syndicate. Your cousin is married to Gavriel Greenberg, who works with her. Together they handle over fifty million dollars per year in diamond sales.”

  He looked at her, his eyes wide and questioning, waiting for her to— what?

  Nervously she moistened her dry lips. “You want my cousin to help you find a diamond for Gogol?”

  “No, I want you to help. We don’t want to involve civilians, but you and I could infiltrate the diamond market and handle the sale.” He leaned toward her, his eyes bright with the stimulation of anticipation. “We will go to Brussels, where you will take your cousin’s place and meet the Russian who wants to buy the raw diamond. You will be friendly, you will ask questions, and together we just might learn what Gogol intends to do with the stone.”

  Wholly taken aback by his suggestion, Devorah pressed her fingertips to her mouth and stared at him. “What if my cousins don’t have a raw diamond that size?”

  “We don’t need a real stone. The Russian is not a diamond expert; he won’t know a man-made stone from the real thing. Daniel feels certain the man can be convinced to have the stone cut in Brussels. Your cousins will retain possession of the stone while it is being cut. If the payment does not come through, nothing is lost.”

  “They don’t expect to be paid?”

  “No. As you know, these business dealings are always conducted on a handshake and a word of honor. Once your cousins heard about the purge underway in Moscow, they decided they had no qualms about substituting a synthetic stone.”

  Devorah’s breath caught in her lungs. “Are you quite certain this Daniel can be trusted? We could be walking into a trap. And I would not want to risk the lives of civilians—”

  “Your relatives are devoted to Israel . . . and they understand that this is important. Don’t you see?” Reed’s face darkened with a host of unreadable emotions. “We suspect this diamond has something to do with Gogol’s overriding ambition to restore Russia to superpower status. That same ambition has driven him to forge an agreement with the Muslim nations. In exchange for Russia’s armies and Gogol’s help in defeating Israel, his allies will grant him oil and cold, hard cash—enough to buy real international power.”

  Devorah leaned back in her chair, trying to put her confused thoughts in order. This Daniel certainly seemed well connected, for the information on Dyakonov and the Russians had been right on. If Michael spoke the truth, her cousins had already agreed to participate in a risky operation for the sake of Israel. Could she agree to do less?

  Her thoughts shifted toward her military obligation. Her captain had given her permission to obey Michael, and she could see nothing in this situation that might damage Israel’s national security. If anything, she would be helping uncover a dangerous force that might threaten them in the near future.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to face the undeniable facts. Michael was not proposing some dangerous assassin’s mission. She would merely go to Brussels, negotiate the sale of a diamond, and make polite small talk during the exchange. The assault on the Knesset had been a far more hazardous operation.

  “Do I need to inform my superiors?” she asked, looking down at her hands on the tabletop. “Should I tell my father?”

  “Daniel will take care of your superiors,” Michael answered, his voice a little unsteady. “And I suppose you may tell your father that we are taking an official trip to Brussels. But say no more than that.”

  She nodded slowly, then looked up to meet his gaze. “What happened to you, Captain Reed? When we first met, I gathered the impression that you wanted nothing more than to do your job and go home. Now you want to go to Brussels.”

  His pupils widened slightly, as if the question had caught him by surprise. “I am only trying to do my job.” A betraying flush darkened his throat, then his mouth curved in a cocky grin. “Maybe it’s the challenge that appeals to me. Gogol threw down the gaunt
let when he sent Dyakonov to Jerusalem, and I’d like to—I’d like Israel to respond and knock the Russian off his feet. But we can’t surprise him unless we know exactly what he has in mind.” His smile softened as he lowered his voice. “I’m up to my neck in this situation now, Devorah, and I’m not the type to bug out in the middle of a fight. I want to see this thing through.”

  Devorah looked away. His answer made sense, for Michael Reed was a soldier through and through, his motives rooted in pure military machismo. Whatever had caused her to think that he might be staying because of her?

  She shook the foolish idea out of her head and met his eyes. “When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning would be best. I’ll arrange everything.” Reed closed his laptop, then stood and gathered his reports. “Wear civilian clothes, by the way. Neither of us can be in uniform after we leave Tel Aviv.”

  “All right. You can pick me up here. I’d like to tell my father good-bye before we go.” Devorah gave him a plastic smile and stood, wondering how she would tell her father she was about to go to Belgium—unescorted— with an American soldier.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  0938 hours

  Monday, October 16

  THE NEXT MORNING, MICHAEL HUDDLED IN THE CAB FOR A LONG MINUTE outside Rabbi Cohen’s house, staring at the fat and milky white raindrops in the headlights. The weather seemed an ominous sign, and he hoped Devorah and her father weren’t superstitious about such things.

  He stared out his window, past long, wavering runnels on the glass. A light came on in the rabbi’s house, and he could see a broad shadow behind the sheer drapes. Someone was watching and waiting.

  “Be right back,” he told the cabby, then he hunched into his trench coat and sprinted across the lawn to the rabbi’s front door. Devorah opened it a moment later, a suitcase in her hand. She was not smiling.

  “Come in, please,” she said, her voice rough. “My father would like to speak with you before we go.”