Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (173 page)

Schmarya laughed. 'I'm in-flight. An hour and a half, then.'

'In-flight.' Chaim sounded impressed. 'Fancy schmancy. If
we don't watch it, you will soon get too grand for the rest of
us, Schmarya.' And with that, he rang off.

Schmarya signalled to the stewardess and handed her the
phone. Then he, too, stared out the window. As he watched, the light drained completely from the sky and everything
became dark velvet.

It was really not much of a flight: a steep ascent followed by
a steep descent. Up and down. But between Dani's sulky
mood and his own worries over the outcome of his upcoming
meeting with Chaim Golan, it was the longest forty-five min
utes Schmarya had ever endured.

He was glad when the plane put down at Ben-Gurion.

'You go on home,' he told Dani when they climbed into a
cab. 'Just drop me off on Dizengoff Street.'

Dani nodded. He was still in no mood to speak. He was
hoping it wasn't true that Daliah and Najib al-Ameer were in
love with each other.

Now that the sweltering day had become a cool, breezy night,
Dizengoff Street teemed even more than it had during the
day. It seemed that everyone was out taking advantage of the breezes, and at the Kassit Café and its rival, the Rowal, every
tiny table was occupied. Sounds of intense conversation and
the metallic chimes of cutlery on china merged with the ever-
present tinkling of glasses. Headlights and tail lights, street
lights and neons, bicycle lamps and floodlit marquees—it was
a perpetual kaleidoscope of patterns and colours. Schmarya
took a sip of his rosé wine and listened. From somewhere
behind him he could hear impassioned youthful voices rising
as someone formulated a petition that had to do with Soviet
Jewry.

It seemed to him that he and Chaim had sat in silence amid the sounds and lights swirling all around them for far too long
already, and he was finding it difficult to be patient. He was
only too aware of each second as it ticked by—precious
seconds which raced inexorably toward the countdown of
Daliah's fate.

Chaim Golan was still thinking, and Schmarya waited,
knowing better than to rush the head of the Mossad.

Finally Golan shifted in his chair. His eyes sparkled merrily,
but his voice was pained. 'There is no time to call a special
meeting and argue this case.'

Schmarya shook his head. 'It has to be tomorrow night.
He has set it up to occur then, and the timetable cannot be
altered.'

Golan pursed his lips. 'What impression did you get from him?' he asked. 'Is he like the newspapers make out? Could
this be some kind of adventure to alleviate a rich man's bore
dom?'

'Not at all. He is quite serious about this. He wants
Abdullah stopped.'

Golan swore under his breath. 'Mecca! The Wailing Wall!
St. Peter's!' He shook his head angrily. 'It proves what we
have known all along. Abdullah is mad. He should have been
terminated a long time ago. We would have all been much
better off.'

Schmarya shook his head. 'All those euphemisms. Why
can't anybody in the intelligence services use real words, like
"murder" or "assassinate"?
Terminate!'
He snorted.

Golan chose to ignore that. 'It's too bad we have so little
time,' he said. 'From what you tell me, it sounds like we should mount a full-scale operation. Attacking a hundred trained ter
rorists on their own ground with only a handful of men is . . .
well, suicidal.'

'We have the element of surprise,' Schmarya pointed out.

'That is about all we have,' Golan countered dryly.

Schmarya put his glass down and leaned toward him. 'How
many men, Chaim?' he demanded in a whisper. 'How many
can you come up with?'

'Fifteen. Twenty.' Golan shrugged. 'Thereabouts. Some
will not be available, others might be out of the country.' He
sighed and shook his head. 'They are bad odds for good boys,
Schmarya. Very bad odds.'

'But they are well-trained. They are the best of their kind
in the world.'

'All the more reason not to waste them senselessly!'

Schmarya stared at him. 'You yourself just admitted that
anything is worth it if we can stop Abdullah. You're not going
to throw this chance away, are you? It's the opportunity of a
lifetime!'

'Then you trust Najib al-Ameer.'

Schmarya nodded. 'I believe he is sincere. It is as important
for him to get rid of Abdullah as it is for us. In fact, we have
much in common; many of his reasons are the same as ours.'

Golan grunted. 'Then why was he so involved with that
hotbed of terrorists for so long, I ask you? For years, it was his
money and his shipping routes that kept Abdullah in business.'

Schmarya looked surprised. 'Then you know all about him.'

Golan's face was expressionless. 'We've been keeping an
eye on him,' he said evasively.

Schmarya gave a bark of a laugh. 'How thick is that dossier?'

'You'll keep your wondering to yourself,' Golan advised
grimly.

'What I can't understand is, if you found out so much, then
why didn't you put a stop to him?'

'You know why.' Golan gestured irritably. 'He's
untouchable. Nothing could be proven. Just because arms are
shipped on his freighters and planes and large sums of money
are channelled through a maze of Swiss accounts doesn't necessarily prove anything against
him.
Of course, we know it's him, but we'd have to prove it. He's no fool, I can tell you that. He's been wise enough to distance himself so that if the
shit ever hits the fan, it stops short of splattering him.'

'He told me he wants out of the PFA.'

'I can't imagine why.' Golan's voice was heavily sarcastic.
'Funny, how people who make a deal with the devil always
find out too late that when you deal with the devil, you end
up in hell. You'd think they'd get wiser earlier on, wouldn't
you?'

'Chaim . . .' Schmarya said, a troubled look on his face.

Golan sighed heavily. 'All right, all right,' he said. 'Against my better judgment, the answer is yes. I'll round up the men and weapons immediately. Just remember—' he wagged a cautioning finger—'for all practical purposes, this is a
private
endeavour. We have no knowledge about the attempt. Should
one or more of our boys die, we will not acknowledge they are
ours. And if we do get Daliah out, remember: not a word to
the press about what really happened. We say it was a moder
ate splinter group of Abdullah's which attempted a coup, and
that
they
released her. Is that understood?'

Schmarya nodded and held his gaze. 'I'm grateful for your decision, Chaim,' he said. 'There is just one more thing, Najib
al-Ameer requests immunity.'

'Immunity! A woman's been kidnapped and a man has been
killed!'

'Daliah won't press charges—'

'And Elie Levin's death? Are we supposed to just forget
that?'

'Under the circumstances, it might be wise. True, Najib al-
Ameer's been involved with Abdullah. But it was Abdullah's
men who did the killing.'

'Schmarya, sometimes you try my soul.'

'And you, you old putz? You don't try mine?'

The head of the Mossad shrugged.

Chapter 22

In the Almoayyed palace:

In her second-floor suite, Daliah paced restlessly. She wore
a pair of floppy silk lounging pyjamas she had found in the closet, and she had fashioned her long hair into a single thick
long braid that hung down her back. That way, she figured,
her mane wouldn't get in the way of things. Earlier in the day,
Khalid had dropped by, ostensibly to check up on her, and
had whispered that if a rescue attempt was made, she should
be prepared for it to be that very night. After that bit of news,
there was no way she could hope to get any sleep. She didn't
even try. Her nerves were too wound up. . . .

Monika yelled and kicked. Slashed her flattened hands
through the air so that they blurred and whistled. Kicked with
the other foot. Advanced. Yelled. Withdrew. She was sweat
ing up a storm. Whenever possible, she practised her judo and karate twice a day—in the morning right after she got up, and
at night, just before bedtime. It pleased her that her reactions
were better than ever. . . .

Khalid swallowed cupfuls of cold strong black coffee. He
could have used sleep, but he had long ago found that his
reactions were always better if he didn't sleep right before a
mission. It took him too long to wake up fully, and tonight, of
all nights, he didn't dare be groggy. . . .

At the far end of the palace compound, Hamid tiptoed
around the utility room in one of the outbuildings and shone
a powerful flashlight around. The thousands of thin, colour-
coded wires baffled him. He didn't know which ones to discon
nect, so he decided to be on the safe side and disconnect them
all. His hands shook and he broke out in a cold sweat as he
began tearing all the wires loose, praying that a contingency
alarm wasn't hooked up to any of the wires he was pulling. He
was sure that bells would be sounding any minute. . . .

Ghazi stirred from his sleep, lumbered groggily into one of the bathrooms, urinated sloppily and wandered back to his
bed, where he fell back into a soundless, dreamless sleep. . . .

Surour was in the other bathroom, sitting on one of the two
travertine toilet seats. His semi-automatic rifle was at his side,
and his bandaged right hand was swelling up worse, but it was
a pain he could bear. His chest swelled with pride. He was
guarding his master while he showered. . . .