Scorpion's Advance (10 page)

Mrs Klein shuffled off to the kitchen to prepare cold drinks while Anderson and her husband chatted. Klein enquired about the dressings on his hands.

'A slight accident in the lab.'

'Then you are working here in Israel?'

'In Tel Aviv, Professor Strauss's lab.'

They were
re-joined by Mrs Klein bearing a tray of drinks with ice cubes bobbing in them. 'Momma, Dr Anderson is working at the university in Tel Aviv . . . with Professor Strauss.'

Mrs Klein made cluck
ing noises in admiration. Anderson should have sensed something amiss when neither of the Kleins picked up on Strauss's name, but he didn't. He said, 'I have something to ask you.' The Kleins looked attentive.

'Please, Doctor, ask.'

'When Martin came home in January did he leave a notebook here?'

The
Kleins looked puzzled. 'January?' said Mr Klein.

'Yes, when he'd finished working in Tel Aviv.'

‘Tel Aviv?'

Oh, Christ
, thought Anderson as he suddenly saw the truth loom up like a rainy Sunday. Martin Klein hadn't come home at all, and he had just told the dead boy's parents that their son had been back in Israel and hadn't bothered to come and see them.

Anderson felt the perspiration of embarrassment on the back of his neck. The look on Mr Klein's face said that there was no way back. It was too late to pretend a misunderstanding. Klein had realized what had happened. His wife didn't; she looked at Anderson and said, 'But Martin hasn't been home in two years, not since he went to medical school
. . .'

Anderson looked away as Klein explained to his wife what the reality was. The look of hurt that appeared in her eyes made Anderson feel even worse. Klein patted her reassuringly on the shoulder as he put his arm round her. 'Momma, we are being rude to our guest.'

Anderson was glad to be away from the house. He had stayed for another cold drink but had declined an invitation to join the Kleins for dinner. He had also turned down Klein's offer to run him back to Hadera, saying that he wanted to take a proper look round the crusader fort before returning.

As he reached the sea, Anderson kicked off his sandals and walked into the surf, bending down to fill his bush hat with water and putting it back on to empty over his face. He shut his eyes as the deliciously cool water rinsed the sweat
from his face. The bastard, he thought, the rotten little bastard. Just how could a nice couple like the Kleins end up with a son like that?

Anderson calmed down a bit as he meandered along the shore, kicking up water when he felt like it. There was now a new question to be asked. Just what did Klein do for ten days after he left Tel Aviv? One question led to another. Was Cohen missing at the same time? Could that be it? he wondered as pieces began to fit. Maybe the secret cloning wasn't done in Strauss's lab at all. Could Cohen and Klein have done it elsewhere? It made a lot of sense.

A puff of sand distracted Anderson and made him stop to look for the little animal he supposed had made it. As he squatted down, a second spurt of sand flew up to the left of the original but this time Anderson correlated it with a distant sound. Someone was shooting at him!

He tried running and swearing at the same time and ended up doing neither successfully as his feet lost purchase in the soft sand and made him a rolling, tumbling,
foul-mouthed shambles before he reached the cover of the Roman aqueduct. A bullet whined off the stone as he pressed himself to the ground and lay still. What now? He was trapped with a kilometre of open beach between him and the fort in one direction and nothing between the aqueduct and the port of Haifa in the other! Moving inland was also out; the ground was as flat and as open as the beach.

Anderson didn't move; the sniper didn't fire; only the sound of the waves lapping the shore and Anderson's own heartbeat broke the peace of the afternoon. Any doubt that he might have harboured about the incident in the lab with the acid being accidental evaporated in the shimmering heat that rose from the sand. Someone was trying to kill him and the odds were all on their side.

His watch said that ten minutes had passed. Maybe his attacker had gone. He cautiously pushed his flight bag out into the open. Crack! The bag jerked as if someone had kicked it. Anderson pulled it in by its strap to find a black hole in the side. The sight of it made him feel sick in his stomach. This was it. He was going to die on the burning sands of Judaea, a long way from Dumfries, and he was no way near ready. If only he knew exactly where the sniper was he might be able to work something out ...in fact, there was a chance he might be able to use the natural curve of the aqueduct to keep it between himself and the gunman while he made a run inland. But with over a hundred metres of open, flat ground between the beach and the nearest cover he would have to be very sure. A bullet from a high-velocity rifle was not going to leave him limping onwards with the 'flesh wound' so beloved of Western movies. It was going to bring him down, and if it did not kill him it would leave such a hole on exiting and make such a mess of his insides, that death might be preferable. But it was his only chance.

He would use his flight bag to induce the sniper to fire again. This time he would push it out suddenly while he himself looked out from the other side of the arch for a muzzle flash. Timing was going to be everything. If he looked out too soon the gunman would fire at his head instead of the bag.

He positioned the flight bag at the edge of the arch and located a long piece of driftwood behind it so that he could move it with his foot from the other side of the arch. When he was sure that everything was positioned as well as it could be, he mentally rehearsed exactly what he was going to do. Then he did it.

In one flowing move he hit the wood with his left heel to send the bag out into the open and then spun on his right to look out. He was in time to see the flash of fire in the scrubland as the gunman fired at the bag. He jerked his head back in not a moment too soon as a second bullet whined off the rock where his head had been.

Anderson let out the breath that he had been holding in and relaxed for a few seconds in the shelter of the stone. He felt a sense of achievement; he knew exactly where the sniper was. He calculated that, if he were two arches further along the aqueduct, he would be able to run across the open ground without the gunman being able to hit him. But, and it was a big but, to get two arches further along would mean exposing himself completely for three or four seconds. Could he risk it?

Realistically, Anderson put his chances at zero. Each time his flight bag had been exposed it had been hit within a second. He would have to think again. Perhaps he could rig up some protection. There were plenty of rocks and boulders lying around in the shade of the arch. If he moved some of them to the mouth, perhaps he could form a small wall to crawl behind for a few yards? He started to shift stones and pile them up at the edge of the arch, taking care to keep his hands inside. If a bullet hit his hand he would lose it.

The sniper saw what was going on and loosed off a shot; it sent stone splinters flying in all directions and made Anderson hug the earth. When his courage had returned he continued his task, telling himself all the time that as long as he did not expose himself he would be all right. He pushed another rock out to extend his wall and the sniper fired again. This time a chip from the stone above Anderson hit him on the forehead. He fell backwards, still conscious but feeling dizzy. He put up his hand to wipe away the blood that was trickling into his eyes and heard the sound of an engine labouring along the sands. Was this the sniper coming to finish him off?

For Anderson, dizziness and fear seemed to merge with confusion as the air was filled with the sound of shouting and automatic weapons being fired in short bursts. He tried to move to the mouth of the arch but stopped as the pain in his head affected his vision. He contented himself with leaning his head against the stone and gazing at the cloudless blue sky.

The light was suddenly blotted out by a figure appearing in the entrance to the arch. A female voice said, 'Are you all right?'

Anderson strained his eyes and saw the epaulettes of a military shirt silhouetted against the sky. He thought that his ear
s had deceived him and said, ‘I’ll be OK. Just a cut on the head.'

'It looks nasty,' said the female voice.

'You’re a woman,' exclaimed Anderson, now sure of what he had heard.

'Incredible, isn't it,' said the woman as she crawled inside the arch and examined Anderson's forehead.
'What happened to the bugles?' he asked as gentle fingers wiped away the blood.

'Bugles?'

'The cavalry always blow bugles when they come to the rescue.'

'Ah, I see. American movies. You don't sound American.'

'I'm not. I'm Scottish.'

'Sit still for a moment,' said the woman. 'We have some dressings in the jeep.' She crawled out backwards from the confines of the arch and ran down the sands to where a jeep was parked with its doors hanging open. She returned within moments carrying a small wooden box which she propped up against a rock and opened. She wiped some more blood away from Anderson's wound before deciding what size of dressing was needed.

Anderson tried to decipher the badges on her uniform but gave up when he realized that his failure to do so had little to do with the poor light in the shadows and much to do with the fact that they were in Hebrew. 'You're a nurse?' he asked.

'No, I'm not a nurse,' said the woman with a certain slow deliberation.

'But you're in the army?'

'Yes, I'm in the army.'

Anderson saw the pips on her shoulders as she reached round him to secure the dressing. 'I'm grateful to you, Captain,' he said. 'You saved my life.'

'We hate to lose tourists,' smiled the woman. 'We need the foreign currency.'

Anderson smiled back. 'Seriously . . . I'm grateful.'

'Can you stand?'

'No problem.' Anderson crawled to the edge of the arch and got to his feet in the sunlight. He could now see his rescuer properly as she stood, hands on hips, looking towards the scrubland where the sound of sporadic gunfire still came from. She was dressed in olive-green fatigues which in no way disguised the slimness of her figure, and she held her hand to her dark hair to stop the wind from the sea blowing it round into her face. Anderson thought that she could not be more than twenty-five or so but her proud profile and the slight haughtiness of her stance suggested a confidence and stature beyond her years.

'What's happening?' asked Anderson.

'My men are pursuing your attacker.'

Anderson noted the 'my men' but managed to contain his surprise.

'Which hotel are you staying at, Mr . . . ?'

'Anderson, Neil
Anderson, and I'm not staying at a hotel. In fact, I'm not a tourist.'

'Then what?'

Anderson put his hand to his head as it began to throb in the blistering heat of the sun. 'Actually, I . . . ' The sand ran into the sea, the sea ran into the sky, and night fell with a sudden, total blackness.

Anderson woke up in hospital. He did not catch which one when the nurse told him but he managed to gather that it was in
Hadera. 'What time is it?' he asked.

'Eight in the evening.'

The door closed, leaving him alone to examine his surroundings. The walls were white, the ceiling was white, the floor was brown. That took care of that. He reached out and lifted his flight bag off the top of the bedside locker. The holes in it were real enough; it hadn't been a bad dream, it had really happened.

'Dr Anderson, you have a visitor,' said the nurse as she held open the sprung door. Anderson's rescuer came in, still dressed in dusty, olive drab.

'How are you feeling?'

'Much better, thank you. I'm afraid I don't know your name.'

'Mirit Zimmerman. You passed out before I could ask you some things I need for my report.'

'Did your men catch the gunman?' asked Anderson.

'I’m afraid not, but all the shore patrols have been alerted in that area in case there are more.'

'More?'

'More terrorists. They come ashore in small boats along the coast, cause havoc then depart. It's supposed to undermine our morale.' Mirit Zimmerman said it as if that were the last thing on earth that it was going to do.

'I see. Then you think it was a terrorist?'

The cool, dark eyes looked straight into Anderson's. 'Don't you?' she asked.

Anderson held her gaze for a moment, wondering if she really knew more than she was letting on, but the features did not flinch. In fact, he felt sure that
Mirit Zimmerman was appraising
his
reaction. 'You are the expert in these matters, Captain.'

Anderson gave
Mirit the information she needed about his reasons for being in Israel and his address in Tel Aviv should there be any need to contact him again about the incident. As she got up to leave, Mirit turned and smiled as if something secret were amusing her. 'Can you think of anything else I should know, Doctor?' she asked.

'I don't think so,' replied Anderson. 'Except to tell you again how grateful I am.'