“What is ‘his side’?”
“That Israel — and the world — would be better off if no Arab was left alive.”
The hag looked at him with her one good eye. “Fett told you of weapon that can wipe out the whole Arab world?”
“Yes.”
“Rasin has it.”
And out of the madness of the past sixteen hours, Blaine saw sense starting to form. No wonder the Arabs were desperate. If they even suspected Rasin possessed such a weapon, they’d pull out all the stops.
“Wait a minute,” Blaine said, following his own thoughts. “Why don’t you just kill him? You wouldn’t need me for that.”
A sudden breeze flapped the curtain and blew through the half-open window. Straying strands of the crone’s gray hair blew across her face. “Can’t. Rasin gone. Disappeared underground with his weapon. Trail there but need you to follow it.”
“Why can’t Evira follow it herself?”
“I not know.”
“I think you do. And I think we’re gonna sit here until you tell me.”
“Your son be no closer to safety as long as we do.”
Blaine’s anger flared. The deep scar that ran down his forehead through his left eyebrow turned milk white against the red flush of his face. His beard bristled. He leaned menacingly across the table.
“You know something, old woman? I believe that you don’t know a thing about the boy. But I know Evira does since she set this whole thing up. So here’s how we’re going to play it: you contact her and set up a meeting between us or the deal’s off. I won’t lift a finger for you and your people, and I don’t think Evira would be pleased with that after all she went through to recruit me.”
“No,” the hag acknowledged, “Evira wouldn’t.”
Blaine watched her as her left hand probed to the dead tissue around her left eye. The skin peeled back in her hand and took a hefty measure of the wrinkles on her cheek with it. The left hand continued to peel and tear while the right stripped off the gray wig to reveal a bun of dark black hair. She stared across the desk at Blaine with both eyes now, as the age of her face lay in strips on the table before them.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. McCracken,” said Evira.
“Come in, Colonel Ben-Neser!”
From his position in a shabby apartment, overlooking the market from above a furniture store, Yuri Ben-Neser lifted the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Have you got her, Ari?”
“Yes,” Ari told him. “Far edge of the market on the corner. Leather handbags hanging outside the entrance.”
Ben-Neser moved to the window. “I can see it! I can see it!” he said thankfully, propping the walkie-talkie upon his shoulder so he could use his single arm to mop his brow. He’d lost the other in the Yom Kippur War of ’73.
Ben-Neser had spent the last two years searching for the elusive Evira. He had heard all the stories, all the legends. Some said she had killed every agent who got even remotely close. Others claimed she had not once taken up arms within the state of Israel, that she was in fact an Israeli citizen. Another legend claimed she directed each and every terrorist attack that took place within the country. Ben-Neser preferred to accept the most secure intelligence on her, which had it that she was committed to organizing Israel’s Arabs into a force that could someday take over the country from the inside. Even this conservative analysis stated that she had agents placed in every sphere of Israeli life, including the cabinet itself. For this reason, cabinet meetings of late had been held in absolute secrecy. Ben-Neser himself favored neither the views of Kahane, nor the far more radical position of Rasin. But the notion of a legion of Arabs and those loyal to them spying on the state from within was terrifying. It certainly justified for him the risk he was taking by conducting this unauthorized mission.
“She’s meeting with someone, sir,” Ari was saying.
Ben-Neser felt the phantom pain of his missing arm as he always did when he was nervous. If anything went wrong, the ramification would be catastrophic. He had to bring this off without a hitch.
“Recognize him?” he asked Ari.
“Big. Rugged with a beard. Looks American.”
American? Ben-Neser wondered to himself. The last thing he needed here was just that sort of complication.
“Do we move in?” Ari asked.
“No,” Ben-Neser said from his position by the window of the apartment, choking down the urge to rub the arm that was no longer there. “Where are you?”
“Shop featuring plumbing fixtures diagonally across the street from Evira.”
“Hold your position. I’m coming down.”
McCracken continued to gaze across the table at the woman whose age had shrunk by upwards of forty years. She returned his gawking stare with an admiring one of her own while she continued to pick at the stray patches of theatrical makeup stuck on her flesh.
“I’m sorry this was necessary,” she said.
“And just what are you referring to, the disguise or the taking of my son?”
“Both, I guess. The boy’s fine. Better than fine. He’s safe.”
“Safe from whom?”
“My enemies are now your enemies.”
“Arab?”
“As well as Israeli. What we’re facing here doesn’t discriminate. You’ll find we have extraordinarily few allies, perhaps just each other.”
“Then how about you deliver Matthew back to Reading School to prove your good faith?”
She looked at him almost sadly. “I can’t do that. You know I can’t.”
“Look, lady, the hag I was talking to a few minutes ago and Fett built a pretty good case. If this bit about Rasin and his weapon are true, then I’m on your side already.”
“Like you were on the side of the French, of the British, even the Americans?” she shot back at him. “I know you better than you think. The side you start out on may not be the side you end up on, depending on the dictates of your conscience. You think I don’t approve of those traits?” she added, more softly, voice laced with admiration. “They are precisely what persuaded me that you were the only one left for me to work with now that my own network has been compromised.”
“Then you also know my word is my bond. Let the boy go. I’ll work with you.”
“I can’t. I made promises, gave assurances. Can’t you see that?”
“What I see every time I close my eyes is what a pair of killers did to John Neville.”
“I don’t condone the actions of butchers.”
“But you used them, didn’t you? Cut the bullshit, lady. If you’re so fond of the way I operate, you must have figured out you’re already working in a bigger ballgame.”
She looked hurt. What little light reached her face told Blaine she was thirty at most and probably younger. Her features were more European than Arabic. She had skin that was soft and smooth, and high cheekbones that complemented an angular chin and large round eyes. Her complexion looked more tanned than naturally bronze.
“Let’s get to the point, Evira,” Blaine resumed. “Let’s get to Rasin. How’d you find out about the existence of this superweapon?”
“I’ve had agents planted within his group for sometime.”
“Arabs?”
“Seventeen percent of Israel’s citizens are Arabs, but they’re Israelis first. This is their nation, too. And as their numbers have grown they have been accepted as part of the nation.” She paused. “By most of the nation anyway. Rasin has seized upon the reality of their growing influence, along with the possible formation of a Palestinian state on the West Bank, and used them to spread his message of hate. His cause has fostered a dangerous, militant faction. He has become enamored of the power it has provided him. Fanaticism is a powerful voice, Blaine McCracken, one the Arabs of Israel find impossible to silence. He seeks to propel himself into power by creating a climate of fear fanatics thrive in. He has his hardcore followers, along with those afraid to oppose him.”