The Damascus Cover

by Howard Kaplan

  “You have him under surveillance?”

  “Of course,” Sarraj said. “Lucky thing too. Three Palestinians jumped him in an ally off the Suq el-Bzouriye. Nearly bashed his head in. We had to remove them.”

  “Did Ben-Sion see your men?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sarraj said. “He was unconscious at the time.”

  Fuad broke into a broad grin. “How long has he been in Damascus?”

  “Fifteen days. I’ve had him watched since he boarded the plane in Frankfurt. One of my agents sat directly across from him, but something very strange happened. When he arrived in Damascus one of his cases was stolen by a baggage boy.”

  “What’s so unusual about that?” Fuad said. “The street urchins who work at the airport are hardly of high moral integrity. I’m sure it was not the first time an arriving passenger was relieved of his belongings.”

  “Of course. However, this seemed more than just a simple case of theft. I have not been able to locate the culprit or discover his identity, but I did find out he appeared at the airport specifically to meet the plane from Frankfurt and that he had never been seen there previously. Furthermore, the operation was engineered with professional precision. The boy ran out the terminal and was picked up by a waiting vehicle. One of my men got the license number. It turned out to be a rented car registered to a nonexistent company.”

  “You suspect Kessim’s Public Security Service or Nahlawi and the Police—or possibly my Mukhabarat?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarraj said. “To be quite honest about it, I’m at a complete loss. I have been unable to determine what was in the case or who stole it.”

  Fuad leaned back and rocked in the chair. “This is very odd, but go on. What can you tell me about the Israeli’s movements in Damascus?”

  “Ben-Sion carried a letter of introduction to the Trade Bureau from the Syrian ambassador in Bonn. It seems our illustrious diplomat was duped by the Zionists. He will be recalled as soon as this business is over. We would not want to bring him back now and risk tipping off Jerusalem.”

  Fuad nodded in agreement.

  “He has spent a considerable period of time purchasing Damascene textiles, furniture, and handicraft and shipping the merchandise to Frankfurt,” Sarraj continued. “As I said, he is clever. After being here only two days he tricked that Nazi windbag Ludin into having a Jewess sent from the haret to his hotel room.”

  “I guess he wanted to taste one of his own kind. You did mention a weakness for women.” Fuad lifted the picture of Ari and Michelle off the desk, looked at it again, and smiled.

  “Possibly. But he also has been carrying on an affair in the New Ommayad with an American photographer. In this case I think he may have been making contact.”

  “Then as yet you do not know why he is here,” Fuad said.

  “No. We had the girl from the ghetto picked up, but unfortunately my men became a little overzealous. Her mind snapped before she could tell us anything.”

  “In that event, why don’t I have this Ben-Sion arrested? My men will not make that kind of mistake. I will have anything you want out of him within a week.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sarraj said. “His history indicates he is not the type to break under physical pressure. Besides, I have something else in mind.” But he was not willing to share his plan with Fuad. Instead Sarraj straightened the papers in front of him and looked directly at the Mukhabarat chief. “Have you made any progress in determining how state secrets are still finding their way to the Israelis?”

  “What?” Fuad said. “I thought after the discovery of Eli Cohen and the subsequent arrests and executions that…”

  “Please do not play the simpleton with me. I know that there is an Israeli operative in the highest echelons of the Baath Party and that you are on his trail.”

  Fuad’s facial muscles tightened. “You have informants in my service,” he charged indignantly.

  “As you do in mine. Let us not play games with each other. We are similar men with similar ambitions, otherwise we would not occupy the positions we do. The political situation in our country is unstable. Since 1946 we’ve had seven major military coups, and twice that number of minor ones. Inevitably those on top will be deposed, and I for one intend to prepare myself to serve Syria at the highest levels if I am called upon.”

  Fuad laughed. Suddenly he understood why Sarraj was offering to share information with him. He needed a major success to boost his ascent to greater power. “You are hoping that this Ben-Sion will lead you to the other Israeli.”

  “Precisely. With the information you possess on—how is he called?”

  “Operative 66.”

  “Yes, on Operative 66, and with my knowledge and directing of Ben-Sion I think we can work together without bothering the Internal Security or the Police and Public Security Services.”

  “I think such an association could be mutually beneficial,” Fuad agreed. “Now, what do you propose?”

  Underneath his composed exterior, Sarraj was beaming. He had Fuad exactly where he wanted him. The Second Bureau chief would gain a wealth of information in exchange for very little. He would not tell Fuad about the painstaking operation he had launched against Ben-Sion. When the laurels came, they would be heaped on him alone.

  “First we must pool the resources of our two services,” Sarraj said. “You must share with me the information you have on Operative 66 and I will hand over to you the dossier on Ben-Sion. Then together we will work out a mutually acceptable plan. In the meantime I propose to continue to chart every step the Israeli makes, foiling his forward progress, until he is forced to go to Operative 66 for help.”

  “And if that does not work?”

  “Then,” Sarraj said, flipping the file closed, “I’ll let you try and beat the information out of him.”

  19.

  SEPTEMBER 20

  The elevator carried Ari down to the lobby. When the doors parted he slowly stepped out and moved across the worn carpet. Then he saw something that pushed his uncertainty into alarm: the short, squat Arab who had been staring at him the time he was on the phone with Ludin was sitting in the far corner of the room reading a newspaper. Ari noticed the man’s eyes fell to the lines of print only after he had glanced in his direction. Ari hesitated for a split second, then continued walking. There was one obvious thing to do—leave the hotel. If the Arab followed he would know for certain he was being watched. If so, he could alter his plans accordingly.

  He was almost at the door when the concierge said nervously. “There’s an emergency call for you. I’ve been ringing your room but there was no answer.”

  Ari’s pulse quickened. “Who’s it from?”

  “I don’t know. The caller just said that it’s urgent, that I had to find you. You can take it over there.” He pointed to a white phone at the far end of the counter.

  Ari moved quickly to the phone and picked up the receiver, leaving little deposits of perspiration on the desk as his hand brushed over it. “Damn heat,” he mumbled to himself. Then he spoke into the receiver:

  “Hello.”

  “Hans, it’s Franz Ludin. I’ve got to talk to you.” His voice was tense, distraught.

  “Can’t it wait until morning? I was just on my way out. I have an important appointment.”

  “This is more important!” Ludin half shouted. “Stay where you are! I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.” He hung up, leaving Ari standing there, listening to the hum of the dial tone. Ari replaced the receiver, the buzzing still ringing in his ears. For a moment he considered ignoring Ludin and continuing to Operative 66 but he decided against that course—he did not want to risk further arousing the Germans’ mistrust. Wiping his hands on his pants, he headed toward the bar. Streicher was closing in on him, that had to be it. The Mossad had not anticipated his credentials would be questioned by the Nazi colony in Damascus. Ari was instructed to socialize not infiltrate. On that level, the Colonel assumed, no suspicion would be aroused.<
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  Assumed wrong, Ari thought angrily, inhaling his J&B and soda. Yet something didn’t make sense. If Streicher was on the verge of exposing him, why was Ludin so overwrought? He had nothing to fear from Ari’s arrest, except maybe guilt by association. Possibly that was it: Ludin would be held culpable for befriending an Israeli spy he assumed was a former Nazi. But if that was the case why was Ludin coming to see him? What could he possibly gain from a confrontation?

  Ari closed his eyes. Confusion compressed his brain, the blood in his head pulsating. Rachael, Saliha, Barkai, the children, Streicher converged in his mind, then blurred. He heard their voices, covering each other.

  Ari slipped off the bar stool, drink in hand, and stood in the entrance to the chandeliered lobby, trying to lock his thoughts to the moment. He would spot Ludin as soon as the older man entered the hotel. Hearing the elevator doors pop open across from him, Ari instinctively glanced over. A lone woman stepped out and strode intently toward the front door.

  He was about to call out to Kim when something stopped him. He noticed that the short, squat Arab who had been watching him earlier folded his newspaper and quickly scanned the room. Hidden in the bar’s entrance Ari was out of his field of vision. As Kim moved toward the street the fear inside him froze into terror. Casually the Arab placed his red headlined al-Ahrar on the arm of the chair, stood, and followed Kim out the door.

  Ari rushed to the bar, threw his glass on the counter, and ran into the lobby, ignoring the high-pitched cursing of the bartender. The hell with Ludin. He had to follow Kim. She was in danger—obviously his cover was pierced. The Second Bureau was capable of anything. Destroying Kim to get to him was the type of tactic the Syrians employed with relish. He had to eliminate the Arab and rush her out of the country.

  Ari burst out of the hotel and stared down Maysaloun Street in both directions. The sidewalk was deserted—there was no sign of Kim or the Arab. He stood rigid. They couldn’t be gone. It was impossible. He’d been only seconds behind them. They could not have disappeared that quickly unless…

  Unless someone had been waiting outside with a car. The Arab’s partner. The Second Bureau. Kim was his soft spot, his Achilles’ heel, and they knew it. He would be contacted soon and a trade offered: Kim for his cooperation, Kim for the disclosure of what he was doing in Syria, Kim for the details of Operation Goshen. He would have to refuse and then they would torture her—slowly, methodically, protractedly. The American Embassy would be powerless. The Syrians detested the Americans and a young Jewish photographer in liaison with an Israeli agent—that was espionage. His lips felt dry and the Scotch had left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

  As Ari moved toward a vacant taxi parked in front of the hotel a voice called out:

  “Hans.”

  He spun around like a cornered alley cat. It was Ludin. Ari had completely forgotten about him.

  “Were you getting into the taxi?” the Nazi asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

  “No, I was restless. I was just pacing until you got here.”

  Ludin grunted. Ari noticed that his face was pale and the creases in his soft flesh had deepened. But the look in his eyes answered any questions Ari had. They were glazed and dilated. Ari had seen that look before: the look on the face of the hunted. Just then a donkey brayed from a nearby street, a very unnerving sound in the silence.

  “Where can we talk?”

  “My room,” Ari said quickly, remembering that previously Ludin had always designated their place of meeting. He attributed the change to the abandon of the defeated. The Second Bureau must be tightening a noose around the Nazi’s neck. But why? He would have to hear Ludin out, then get rid of him. For a second Ari wondered if it wouldn’t be better to talk outside the New Ommayad, in some out-of-the-way place where the Second Bureau would have difficulty finding him. Immediately he rejected the idea as foolish. The Second Bureau, cognizant of his true identity, would be following every movement. Getting to a safe location would consume precious time, nullifying the purpose of seeking an alternate place of meeting. As Ludin followed him into the hotel Ari glanced behind him. He saw nothing.

  “Do you have anything to drink?” Ludin asked nervously as they entered his room.

  “Some arak?”

  “Nothing better than that?’

  An unexpected calm enveloped Ari as if he had battled his way into the eye of a storm and could relax, rest a moment, before plunging back into the tempest. He moved toward the phone. “I can order a bottle of Scotch.”

  “No,” Ludin said. “The arak will be fine.”

  Ari poured two glasses and added water, which turned the liquid from clear to milky white. He handed one to the Nazi, who was shaking. Clutching at the glass with both hands, he brought the contents to his lips, spilling some of the liquor on the carpet.

  “I’m sorry,” Ludin said, scowling at the glass as if somehow the arak were responsible for spilling itself.

  Ari sat his drink on the dresser untouched and sat on the edge of the bed, indicating that Ludin should take the chair near the desk.

  “I’ve never seen you like this, Franz. What’s the matter?”

  Ludin gulped down the arak. “Somebody’s trying to kill me. Letter bombs, two of them. They sent one to my office and another to my home. Just like with Streicher.”

  “What!” Ari said, not having to feign surprise. He had nothing to do with these additional explosive devices.

  “It had to be the Israelis.” Ludin stared down into the empty glass, then held it out toward Ari. “Get me another one, will you?”

  He refilled Ludin’s glass only halfway. The Nazi’s hands were still shaking.

  “I don’t understand. Why after so many years, would the Israelis suddenly attempt to assassinate two Nazis here in Damascus?”

  “Three Nazis,” Ludin said in a hushed tone. He looked from his drink to Ari. “The police security team found another letter bomb in the main post office late this afternoon.”

  “Who was it addressed to?” He didn’t know why but for some reason he expected the third recipient to be Heinneman.

  “You.”

  The single word hit him like a sledgehammer. It was impossible. Ludin had to be mistaken, yet Ari knew he wasn’t. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Ari stared at the untouched glass of arak on his dresser. The eye of the hurricane had passed, the backlash of the storm striking him full force. The Syrians would not trouble themselves with letter bombs. Interrogating an Israeli agent would be a pleasurable diversion from the banal rigors of intelligence life—not to mention the potential information to be gained. No, they would hardly throw away the opportunity to question him. Then the lens inside Ari’s mind brought everything into focus. The Syrians had not tried to kill him, at least not yet. That left only one possibility, sordid and ugly, yet a living sacrament of intelligence life: to produce the desired results even one’s own agents are expendable.

  The realization of what had befallen him numbed Ari. For reasons he could not even begin to fathom, it seemed his own Service wanted him dead. It must have been planned from the beginning and Barkai’s not turning up was part of it, part of a plot to see that he didn’t leave Syria alive. But why? Agents were not done away with unless there was a reason, unless there was something to be gained. Ari realized if he was to escape from Damascus he’d have to discover what that reason was and eliminate it—before the Syrians closed in or the Israelis struck again.

  Even if he was rushing into the hands of his executioner he wouldn’t alter the decision he’d made before. He had no other direction in which to turn. As soon as he got rid of Ludin he would find, contact, and then confront Operative 66. His own life had to be spared, at least long enough to smuggle the children out of Syria.

  Then a sickly feeling of disgust, pain, and hate caught in his throat. What if he was being used? What if Operative Goshen didn’t exist at all? What if the whole thing was a cover for another operation
and the children, like Ari, were to be sacrificed to some higher priority objective? What if Rachael had suffered for nothing? White anger burned inside him. If that was the case he swore to himself that somehow he would get out of Syria, make his way back to Israel, and beat the Colonel to the ground with his bare hands.

  “What are we going to do?” Ludin asked, breaking the wanderings of Ari’s mind.

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. He had to snap back into his role as a German commercial businessman, and fast. “Maybe we should get out of the country, find someplace safe.”

  “Where am I going to go?”

  “How about Peru or Argentina? The ODESSA should be able to provide the necessary papers.”

  “I’m too old to start over,” Ludin snapped, wringing his hands. “I’ve been in Syria for over thirty years—coming here was difficult enough. I wouldn’t survive the move to South America.”

  Ari wanted to laugh. The Nazi propagandist’s quaking before an Israeli spy, whining about how he was too old to run from the Jews, had a comical aspect to it.

  “In that case I suggest you hire a bodyguard,” Ari said. “Someone to stay with you twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Do you think the Israelis would give up if they saw I was being protected?”