"Have there been any changes in the plan?"
"None. We close down operations at the island two weeks from today, then head for Arkansas where the truck will be painted by an auto theft gang. People who won't be volunteering any information to the authorities later. Then we move into Toronto."
When they had circled back to the trolley stop, Captain Makarenko bade her compatriot a reluctant farewell. "I would love to spend a decadent night with you on the New Orleans waterfront, Comrade Golanov, but I have to catch the plane for New York. We mustn't keep Aeroflot waiting. My flight to Moscow departs this evening."
The prospect was tempting, Andrei was forced to admit to himself. Fortunately, duty called her, so he didn't have to wrestle with the temptation. He gave her an encouraging smile. "Tell our friends in Moscow that the Jabberwock will soon be ready to strike. I should have final confirmation on everything when we meet next weekend in Atlanta."
Chapter 17
The El Al flight from London shrieked down through the darkened sky, dipped a wing over the twinkling lights of the Jaffa waterfront and settled smoothly into the rhinestone glitter of runway markers at Ben-Gurion International Airport. Burke made no effort to stifle a yawn as he strolled into the Arrivals Hall carrying his bag and camera case. He had managed a few hours sleep during the abbreviated night of flying, but he'd likely still encounter some lingering effects of jet lag. It would soon be daylight, and he had a full day ahead of him.
He checked through Customs, getting the Israelis’ typical thorough inspection of his luggage. After establishing his bona fides as a commercial photographer, he encountered no problems. He caught a shuttle in front of the terminal and soon saw the lights of Tel Aviv glowing in the distance. The sprawling suburbs gave way to rows of apartment buildings and then the cluttered downtown area with its hotel district along Ha-Yarkon Street. Lori had booked him into a hotel with moderate prices but a decent Mediterranean view. By the time he got settled into his room, the morning sun bathed the landscape outside his window with a golden glow that would soon burst into a crescendo of heat.
After breakfast, Burke took a stroll into the nearby shopping area to locate a gadget bag for his camera equipment. With that taken care of, he hailed a taxi and headed for the colorful old port city of Jaffa, which lay along Tel Aviv's southern flank. His first stop was the Ottoman Clocktower, Jaffa’s famous landmark. The only thing that distinguished him from the camera-wielding tourists who roamed the area was the methodical way he sized up his subject, carefully checked the lighting and logged details of each shot in a pocket-sized notebook. He made a cursory check of the area and saw nothing that indicated any interest in him. Lori took after her dad, he thought, questioning every dark shadow. But he was a simple commercial photographer on a routine assignment. Nobody had any reason to think otherwise. He had never been to Israel before and saw this as an opportunity to relax and enjoy the sights.
From the Clocktower he wandered east to the popular Flea Market, where stalls and shops crowded a warren of covered alleys. He pushed his way into the throng of babbling shoppers and merchants. A mixed array of merchandise filled the displays, ranging from jewelry to brass and copper and all manner of Middle Eastern treasures and junk. He stopped at one point to photograph an arm-waving merchant arguing with an equally-intense customer over a string of beads. After making the shot, he spun around to go back the way he had come and found himself face-to-face with a startled Arab. A slender man with a hooked nose and heavy brows, a short black beard hiding his chin, he dropped his head and quickly weaved his way off into the crowd.
Burke watched the bobbing head disappear among the confusion. For a moment he wondered if the hasty departure was more than mere embarrassment, but he dismissed the thought and navigated a new route past the last row of stalls.
Cam had suggested he approach the restaurant shortly before noon. He found it on a side street not far from the Flea Market. Called The Casbah, it appeared to be an eating place that catered to locals rather than tourists. The building was a dusty brown, made of stone, one of Israel’s two main building materials, the other being concrete. The sign looked faded and weatherbeaten, the windows covered mostly with lettering in Hebrew and Arabic.
Out of deference to Lori's cautions, he made a photo of the restaurant before venturing inside, seemingly as an afterthought. Coming out of the blaring mid-day sun, he was almost blinded by the darkness of the interior. There were no more than a dozen tables, only two of them currently occupied by men jabbering in an unfamiliar language. A dark- skinned, heavyset man with a stubble of beard, his hands shoved into the pockets of his smudged apron, stood at a small counter beside a glass cabinet filled with various dishes and eyed Burke with no more animation than he would have shown for a leg of lamb. He fit the description Cam had recited.
Burke sauntered across to him and smiled. He spoke the rehearsed words slowly. "I was told that you might direct me to someone who could locate a 1730 map of the Eastern Mediterranean."
The dark eyes narrowed. "Are you a map collector?"
"I'm inquiring for a friend," Burke said.
The reply seemed almost a snarl. "Long time since I hear of your friend."
At least he’d made contact, Burke thought. He hoped the snarl was the man's normal manner rather than an expression of displeasure with him. "Yes, he was hoping you would still remember."
That brought a grunt. "Tell him Farouk never forgets nothing."
"I'll only be in town a short time," Burke said, hoping to instill a bit of urgency into the conversation. "Will it be possible to speak to this person today?"
Farouk shrugged and lowered his voice. "If he is willing."
Burke decided to play his hole card. He took a folded envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "Our friend sends this to compensate for your trouble."
The bulky man took the envelope and shoved it into his pocket without opening it. "I look for no trouble. If I have trouble, this is much too little."
He's probably right, Burke thought. If the Mossad got wind of this, he would likely find good reason to regret having ever known a guy named Cameron Quinn. On the other hand, there was no reason to anticipate any trouble. This was going to be almost a non-event, as he had originally expected.
"Where will I find him?" Burke asked.
"You like to make pictures?" Farouk said, nodding toward the camera slung around his neck.
"I'm a professional photographer. I came over to make pictures of Jaffa for a travel magazine."
"You don't find nothing to photograph here. You want to go to Old Jaffa."
"And which way is that?"
"Go Mifraz Schlomo Street from the Clocktower to the plaza, where you find restaurants and art galleries. I give you a map to the Blue Nile Studio. I will call, tell you what time to be there. Give me a phone number."
Burke gave him the hotel name and his room number.
"Be sure to have your camera like now," Farouk said. "Carry a copy of The Jerusalem Post in your left hand."
Back at the hotel, Burke stretched out on the bed for a few moments of relaxation. The next thing he knew, the phone was ringing. His eyes popped open. For an instant, he felt disoriented. The room looked strange. Then, as the phone kept ringing, he realized this was what he had been waiting for. He reached for the bedside table and grabbed the phone.
"Hello!"
"Be there at four o'clock," said a voice he recognized as Farouk’s.
"I'll be there," he replied as the line went dead.
Burke got out of the taxi near the Franciscan Monastery of St. Peter, which stood above the blue waters of the Mediterranean, commanding a magnificent view of Israel's largest city. Modern hotels rose above a sprawling hodgepodge of architecture as diverse as the origins of its people, all accented by the curving Mediterranean coastline. He looked up from paying the fare just as a slow-moving car crept past. He had only a quick glimpse of a face on the passenger side, but it gave him a jolt. Hooked nose and heavy brows, short black beard. The man from the flea market.