the Plan (1995) (42 page)

"Photo Ops, Naomi Zur speaking."

"I've been trying to get this burnoose on and I can't remember. . . . Do you wrap the east end under the crown or do you hook it behind your ear and tuck it in back?" he said, recalling a time they both had tried to infiltrate a Palestinian refugee camp to get a story. Cole made a lousy Arab and almost got them killed.

"Jesus, Cole . . . If you're back, I'm gonna put in for an immediate transfer."

"Hey, Naomi, it wasn't that bad. How 'bout lunch at the restaurant downstairs in the Kolbo Shalom?"

Reuters was located directly over one of Tel Aviv's largest shopping centers, dominated by the Kolbo Shalom department store.

"Who's buying?" She remembered that Cole had a reputation for never picking up tabs.

"That's why they put those matchbooks in the ashtrays, Naomi, so people can draw straws."

And then he couldn't help himself. . . . "By the way, how's Uri?"

"He died. Land mine," she said flatly.

"I'm sorry." Cole remembered the ruggedly handsome Israeli war hero who had risked his life countless times. "See you in an hour. . . . I'll buy this time."

He lunged off the bed and grabbed his light coat and headed for the door.

*
*

After Cole left, Ryan and Lucinda went to their room down the hall. Kaz sat for a long time on his bed lost in thought. He decided they needed to get hold of some ordnance. Something told him that wandering around Tel Aviv, unarmed, was dangerous. And stupid. He figured that buying arms in Tel Aviv couldn't be too tough. He locked the door and headed down the hall to Ryan's room to get some cash. He paused in front of the door when he heard a sound inside and realized it was Lucinda moaning. The breathy gasps were accompanied by the gentle tapping of the headboard against the wall. Kaz, concerned for her safety, almost knocked but caught himself at the last moment.

Jesus, he thought, it's been so long since I got laid I almost didn't recognize the music. He decided to find a dealer and bring him back here. A few minutes later, he was out in the bustling street.

Akmad Jarrar spotted him from the front seat of the blue Mitsubishi, then got out and followed on foot.

The restaurant in the Kolbo Shalom Center was on the second level and overlooked the harbor. The food was international and the clientele was strictly business.

Cole could hear four or five different languages and the tenor and tone of the conversations were intense. Spreadsheets were pored over, cell phones rang, while watercress salads and shish kebab were ferried around on pewter trays.

Tel Aviv had become a business mecca, where the emerging Eastern democracies were spreading their wings on the currents of Israeli financing.

Naomi Zur walked into the room wearing a tailored shooting jacket. She had her black hair pulled back in a bun and her shirt tied in a knot at her waist. She wore no makeup. At almost five-nine, she was a truly striking woman. She spotted him and, with black eyes twinkling, moved toward him. They were eye-to-eye as they embraced. She squeezed his hand before sitting down across from him.

"You look like the cover for the desert edition of Vogue."

"You're such a fucking liar, Cole, but thanks." She smiled and grabbed the menu. "So you're buying?"

"All you can eat, as long as you stay under ten U
. S
. dollars."

"Then we better work the roll basket."

"I'm sorry about Uri."

"Thank you. He's gone . . . and we have to move on." It was very Israeli. She was not about to dwell on it or share her pain with anybody. She asked for no sympathy and wanted none.

After the salads arrived, she started the ball rolling. "Alluring as I am, I don't think you came all the way to Israel to buy me a plate of falafel."

"I need help on a story. I thought the computer bank at Reuters might have what I need."

"What about the computer bank at UBC?"

"They threw me out, Naomi. Punta de basta."

She nodded as if she wasn't surprised. For a second, Cole wondered what effect he'd had on people over the years. Maybe it wasn't the impression he thought he'd been leaving.

"Whatta you need?" she finally asked.

"When I covered Lansky's trial in '71, the lead prosecutor was a man named Gavriel Bach . . ."

She listened attentively as he ran the backstory, ending by saying he needed to find Bach's widow, if she was alive. If not, then his family. He was sure that a major political figure like Bach must have reams of background stuff in the computer. He left out all of the information about Mickey Alo and UBC, his newsman's paranoia still intact. When he was finished, she looked at him quizzically.

"What's the story here? This is more than just a background check on Gavriel Bach."

"Yeah."

"Gimme the lead line."

"He was breeding Persian longhairs. I'm doing a story for Kitty Litter magazine," he said.

"Look, Cole, you know how it works. If I help you and it leads anywhere, I need to take the ride."

"Okay, but you gotta trust me to give it to you when I think it's safe. I have certain security considerations. Some dangerous people are after me."

"Your word was always worth something," she said slyly. "I just could never figure out what."

He paid the bill with American money and they took the elevator up to the news bureau. On the way out, they passed a tall Israeli with dark ringlets. Yossi Rot joined them in the elevator and watched while Naomi pushed "14." He got out at 3 and went back to the lobby and looked at the directory. The entire fourteenth floor was occupied by Reuters News Bureau.

Cole was seated in the Background File Room in front of the computer as if he owned it, scrolling information while Naomi stood behind him. There were reams of material on Gavriel Bach. His widow was Mishama Bach, known as Misha. She was last mentioned in a story about an Arab shoot-out in Jerusalem only two months ago. She had been a witness to the shooting. The article said she was living in the Old City and taking care of her sister-in-law.

Cole scribbled down the address on Ben Yehuda Street and promised Naomi he would cut her in if anything happened.

When Cole got back to the Carlton Hotel, Kaz was already there. He had two Uzis with extra clips lying on the bed. A suitcase was open on the dresser with two Desert Eagle automatics and a nine-millimeter Beretta, complete with extra clips and shoulder holsters. Standing beside th e d resser, with one hand still on the open suitcase, was a scruffy-looking man in a dusty brown shirt.

"Meet Emir Shamgar," Kaz said.

"Shamagar," the Israeli corrected him.

"Right. And he's your friendly Allenby Street firearms dealer. I figure we oughts pick out some party favors before we tool around in this jungle. Ken and Barbie are asleep, but once you pick out what you want, we'll get 'em up and conclude the arrangements. Mr. Shamagar is very agreeable to terms as long as we pay one hundred percent up front."

Ten minutes later, Ryan and _Lucinda joined them. Ryan decided to risk putting the purchase on his American Express card. It amused Cole that Shamagar had an AmEx charge plate and imprinted the card before picking up the phone and calling the AmEx credit center for verification.

"It's the new Israel," Cole said bleakly.

After Ryan picked out one of the heavy Desert Eagles and two clips, they concluded the deal. It came to just under sixteen hundred dollars. Mr. Shamagar graciously threw in two boxes of ammo before he left.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Shamagar left the Carlton. By then the Ghost was seated in the blue Mitsubishi across the street and saw him go.

Chapter
59.

KAZ SLUNG THE UZI OVER HIS SHOULDER AND PUT THE nine-millimeter Beretta he had selected into his belt, but Cole elected to leave his Uzi in the room. Ryan felt like one of his TV characters with the ridiculously heavy Desert Eagle strapped under his arm in an upside-down holster. He wore his loose-fitting silk jacket over it, but the bulge was still obvious. Kaz stuffed the extra boxes of ammo into Lucinda's purse.

They stepped out into the late afternoon heat and hailed a cab.

The Old City of Jerusalem was only one hundred kilometers from Tel Aviv, but the traffic was miserable and it took two hours. They got out of the taxi at Ben Yehuda Street and didn't notice the blue Mitsubishi that pulled up a block behind. The Ghost, wearing an unmarked red baseball cap and dark glasses, got out of the car with Akmad and followed them on foot.

Ben Yehuda Street had been turned into a pedestrian mall. It was about fifty feet wide and intersected by several streets that were closed to traffic. The yellow stone that paved it matched in size and color the old stone used almost two thousand years ago on the ancient buildings. Th e s hops lining the streets had colorful awnings that hung down like fringed eyelids at half-mast. The mall was teeming with people of all nationalities. They walked downhill, then through the Jaffa Gate, which marked the entrance to the Old City.

The first thing that Ryan noticed was the feeling of holiness about the place. There was a sense of spiritual history all around him . . . Jewish, Christian, and Muslim. They passed the Wailing Wall; above it sat the Dome of the Rock.

"This is amazing . . . like being in church," Lucinda said, picking up Ryan's thought.

"Only two cities in the world feel this way," Cole announced, "Jerusalem and the Vatican."

They moved on along the narrow, winding street and finally found the apartment number.

The building was three stories high, the front door was oiled wood, aged to a rich golden brown by heat and time.

Cole knocked on the door and after a minute, an old woman with a babushka around her head leaned over the balcony and screamed something at them in Hebrew.

"Sorry, ma'am," Kaz shouted. "Don't speak Jewish."

"Hebrew, you dickhead," Cole corrected him.

The woman disappeared, and a girl about twelve came to the balcony.

"Yes? What do you want?"

"We're looking for Mishama Bach. We're friends of her late husband."

The girl spoke to someone behind her, then turned and looked down at them again.

"Just a minute," she said and was gone.

A few moments later, the door opened and they were looking at Misha. She was tall and raw-boned, dressed in loose-fitting clothes. Her steel-gray hair was pulled back and knotted in a bun behind her head. Good bone structure saved a face crushed by disappointment and time. Her best feature was her dark brown eyes. In her youth, Cole imagined, she was probably quite beautiful.

"I'm Misha Bach." Her English was flavored by a slight British accent.

"I'm Cole Harris. I knew and admired your husband. Could we come in for a minute? We've come a long way."

She turned her gaze expectantly to the others. Cole made the introductions and, after they shook her hand, she invited them in. They entered the house and followed her up the narrow wooden staircase to an apartment on the second floor.

"This is my sister-in-law's house. She's been very sick and so I've been staying here the last few months taking care of her."

The apartment was small but neat. Framed prints of Zionist heroes looked down stoically from white plaster walls--David Ben-Gurion, the Israeli flag furled behind him; Menachem Begin in front of the Knesset. In a position of honor was a portrait of Gavriel Bach in the robes of a Supreme Court justice.

"My sister-in-law was very proud of her brother. He became a Supreme Court justice before he died," Misha said as she saw Ryan looking at the portrait. "She's asleep in the bedroom. Let me close the door." She moved across the room and pulled the bedroom door closed as Cole smiled broadly. He was in his news-gathering mode, which, after four months, Kaz had come to loathe.

"Mrs. Bach, your husband was one of the most distinguished legal minds I've ever encountered. I covered the trial of Meyer Lansky in 1971. Gavriel did the State of Israel an outstanding service at that trial, a service that was, perhaps, pivotal to its survival."

"Thank you. I don't believe he ever mentioned you, Mr. Harris."

"Well, I was just one of many admirers. We spoke several times and my respect for him was overwhelming because never once did he sacrifice his ideals for a result. He was a man we could all learn from. A man with such depth of soul and feeling, such commitment to the highest moral standard that I personally was compelled to reevaluate my own career goals and motives after coming in contact with him." Cole was vibrating bullshit.

Kaz, Ryan, and Lucinda shifted their weight awkwardly in the small room.

"You must have known him very well to have understood that."

"Not well enough. And that's why I came all the way here to talk to you, Mrs. Bach. I'm doing a major series of articles for Time magazine called 'Silent Heroes.' I'm picking one unsung hero from each of five countries... men who changed the course of their country . . . maybe even the flow of history . . . men who served mankind without any special recognition or applause. And because of the absolutely therapeutic effect Gav had on my life, I've picked him as my Israeli." Cole was in hyperspace, orbiting freely over this complex ball of nonsense.