‘Are we to understand you want to remain in command of the ground operation?’
‘Unless you have anyone else in mind.’
‘But you’re a believer too,’ Sumners said accusingly.
‘Am I?’ Stratton replied coldly, looking him in the eye like a poker player, pushing the knife even deeper into Sumners. Stratton’s rock steady gaze had convinced everyone, even Sumners, of his doubt in Gabriel, and further illustrated his strength of character and power of leadership and Sumners despised him even more for it.
Sumners capitulated. He removed the photograph of Zhilev from his pocket and placed it on the table.
Sumners’ boss could see the private battle between the two men and although he did not entirely comprehend the politics behind it, it was now time to intervene. In truth, he had harboured doubts about Sumners’ ability to see this operation through almost immediately after he had given him his blessing. Stratton’s credentials for the job were obvious and he now understood why he used to be a favoured operative. The answer was simple. Sumners had been a desk agent all of his career and was meant to remain as such.
Sumners’ boss pushed the photograph across the table towards Stratton. ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Shall we get on with this operation?’ He thought about letting Sumners brief Stratton on the further details then decided against it. He got to his feet. ‘Stratton,’ he beckoned as he walked down the cabin fastening his jacket and smoothing out the sides.
Stratton unlocked his gaze from Sumners and followed.
Sumners looked down at his hands to find them both formed into tight fists. He unclenched them and then sensed Chalmers looking at him. Sumners forced a smile as if to shrug the incident away but Chalmers’ only response was to go back to his typing.
Sumners’ boss reached midway of the cabin and folded his arms as he faced Stratton. ‘Let’s appraise the situation so far,’ he said. ‘We don’t know where Zhilev is or where he’s heading, but I think the Middle East is as good a place to start as any, and our Israeli friends are the regional experts.We’ve told them we’re on the trail of a former Russian Spetsnaz operative who we believe has been employed by an Islamic terrorist organisation to instruct them on how to improve their bomb-making capabilities. We’re holding back Zhilev’s name for as long as we can because once the Israelis have that they’ll soon discover his brother was killed by Islamic terrorists, and then, of course, our story won’t hold much water - unless their imaginations run away with them, which Israeli intelligence is not famed for . . . We’re taking a risk by not telling them about the device but I believe it is justified for the moment. We’ll lose all control for one. The bottom line is there will be hell to pay if we screw this up . . .
‘You will be acting as our intelligence liaison officer while you’re here. The Israelis will not want you running around carrying on your own investigation. They won’t trust you, of course, and you should expect them to monitor you. They know we won’t have told them everything, which is why they will give you some leeway to move about in the hope of gaining information. I’ve suggested you be based in Jerusalem to start with because it’s the most central location and a good jumping-off point for all borders. Another reason for choosing Jerusalem is you need to be in the town of Ramallah by dawn tomorrow, which is about half an hour away by car. You need to be there without the Israelis knowing. In case you are not aware, Ramallah is the seat of the Palestinian authority and is surrounded by Israeli security forces, checkpoints, et cetera. Chalmers will fill you in on the details.’
Stratton looked over his shoulder to see Chalmers standing out of earshot halfway along the cabin waiting to be beckoned, holding a small canvas bag.
‘In Ramallah you’ll make contact with a man,’ Sumners’ boss went on. ‘He’ll be waiting for you at the lion wearing a wristwatch - apparently that will become obvious to you once you are in the town. He is a member of Islamic Jihad and is also working for us. I cannot advise you on the level of trust you can give this character. It’s Sumners’ idea. The man has played a rather large part in this saga and he may be of use.That will be up to you. His motives are convincing though. I think that’s about it.’
‘I don’t know Israel or the West Bank. How do I get into Ramallah?’
‘You’ll have some help, hopefully. At such short notice we’ve not been able to get in touch with our local agent, but we should manage by tonight. Any other questions, ask Chalmers. The little swot knows just about everything . . . Good luck,’ he said with a smile and walked back up the aircraft.
Chalmers took his cue, approached and took out the contents of the bag, handing them to Stratton as he described them. ‘This is a BBC press identity card that allows you to operate as a member of the press in the West Bank. It’ll make it easier for you to move through IDF checkpoints.There are two main checkpoints into Ramallah - there’s a third but it’s not advisable. Kalandia checkpoint is the only route Palestinians are allowed to drive through. The checkpoint on the other side of the town is known as the DCO and they will allow you in on the press pass, depending on the mood they’re in. The soldiers on the checkpoints are usually conscripts and therefore tend to carry the psychological baggage of the pressganged. Kalandia closes around six p.m., the DCO is open twenty-four hours a day. One credit card. Five thousand US dollars. Do you have receipts for the last twenty-four hours? I’ll take them off you now if you have.’
Stratton dug into an inside pocket of his jacket, produced a pile of paper and handed it to Chalmers who took it with a frown.
‘I take it these have not been itemised?’
‘When do you think I had time to do that?’
Chalmers pocketed the papers and handed Stratton the cash. ‘Gabriel doesn’t know about your visit to Ramallah and we should keep it that way. One satellite phone with numbers pre-programmed . . . One passport . . . Give me your other one.’ They exchanged passports. It was obvious they did not want the Israelis knowing where Stratton had been in the past. ‘And a précis on the Israeli intelligence services, which you should read and leave on the plane . . . Any questions?’
‘I was hoping I’d get a gun.’
‘The Israelis won’t let you carry one. Anything else?’
‘Yeah.What was the name of the pope who started the first crusade?’
‘Urban the Second. Anything else?’
‘. . . No.’
‘Good luck then,’ Chalmers said and turned on his heels to head back to his perch in front of his computer.
Smart arse, Stratton thought. With the personality of a turnip he’ll probably go far.
Stratton glanced through the paper on Mossad and Shin Bet. He knew a little about both services having worked on a case two years before of an IRA sniper hired by the Palestinians because their own were so poorly skilled. The sniper hit fourteen soldiers in twenty-five minutes at an Israeli checkpoint in El Arik near the town of Ofra killing ten of them before making his way out of the country using a well-planned escape route. Because of the expert shooting and high-quality design of the hide which had been carefully prepared over several days, and, more damningly, the fact the sniper left his weapon behind, not a Palestinian habit but certainly an IRA modus operandi, Israeli intelligence directed their suspicions towards the Irish Republican terrorist group. British intelligence eventually narrowed it down to two suspects but there was not enough evidence to pin it solidly on either. No further action was taken. A few weeks later, a rumour surfaced that the IRA had warned the Israelis if they attempted any kind of retaliatory assassination, a standard Mossad reaction, it would be brutally answered by a campaign against Jewish interests in Britain. No retribution against the IRA was made.