The second operation took place six months after the first. A small car bomb at a pizza shop. An Israeli pizza shop. One Jew killed, two wounded. The headlines were loud, and the Israeli response clear. Helicopter gunships took ten times as many Arab lives. Zak found the success intoxicating, and his group grew larger. More attacks were arranged, but each with the greatest of care. He realized the inherent danger. If his group were ever discovered, the media’s sway that now aided him would deal a massive counterpunch. Israelis attacking Israelis, blaming the Arabs. The world would cringe.
After a dozen attacks in the first three years, Zak began to feel the risks outweighed the benefits. He scaled back, making the strikes big newsgrabbers, but fewer in number, and only when the chance of detection was low. They were also planned to coincide with the occasional efforts at peace, torpedoes to any truce that might give land to the dirty squatters.
Zak muddled through four years in SIGINT before accepting early retirement, with the rank of major, as promised. It was a divorce, in a sense, one that caused both parties to breathe a sigh of relief. By then, his organization was well established. Still young, and with a clear goal in mind, he searched for even more effective ways to manipulate the will of his countrymen. He found it in politics.
The merchant’s son was a natural. All he had to do was tell people what they wanted to hear. Tough words at the Veterans Society fundraiser, suggest peace at the university commencement speech. It took two years to land a seat on the Knesset. There, his career might have stalled among the lawyers, generals, and other merchants’ sons, had it not been for one stroke of luck. Zak managed to tie himself to the coattails of a rising star by the name of Benjamin Jacobs. The timing was impeccable. Within ten years of leaving the service under a cloud, he had become the second most powerful man in Israel, at least on paper. From there, there had only been one place to go.
And here he was. The lights of Paris had faded, along with those of the French countryside. Now he saw nothing but blackness below, and he decided it must be the English Channel, that little strip of water that had so often saved the British from their enemies. Zak wished he had a Channel. One he could throw all the Palestinians into. A chime sounded and he saw the light flashing on his private intercom. He waited a few moments before picking it up casually.
“What is it?”
He recognized the pilot’s voice.
“We’re beginning our descent, Mr. Prime Minister. It might get bumpy and I wanted to make sure you were buckled in.”
“How long until we land?” Zak demanded.
After a slight pause, the pilot replied, “Seventeen minutes, sir.”
The pilot was a colonel in the Israeli Air Force, and had probably received his commission about the same time as one retired Major Ehud Zak. Timing was everything.
“Make it sixteen.” He hung up and smiled.
By coincidence, ten miles to the south another Israeli executive transport, this one much smaller, was climbing as it began its six-hour journey back to Tel Aviv. Inside, Anton Bloch was also talking on a handset, he to a hotel in Casablanca. His expression was both grim and determined.
When Anton Bloch arrived in Tel Aviv there was no limo waiting. Instead, he’d called ahead and his wife was there to give him a ride, escorted by two bodyguards. For all the privileges Bloch would lose, the muscle would be around for many years. No one would particularly care if he were blown to bits, but ex-Directors of Mossad knew far too many dirty secrets to risk capture.
Bloch was exhausted after the all-night flight from London, and he sat with his wife in the back seat as they went straight to his office. Or what used to be his office. On the way there, the Blochs made a feeble attempt at conversation. They covered the weather, their leaking bathroom sink, and finally ventured to more tender ground, the status of their recalcitrant daughter who had been mucking up her first year at university. The last subject was a sour one, and they both knew he couldn’t give the issue the attention it required. At least not now. Arriving at Mossad headquarters, Anton Bloch shot his wife a look that told her she’d have to handle it for the time being. As he was about to get out of the car, she grabbed his arm.
“Oh, wait. I have something for you.” She dug into her purse and handed over a message, scripted in her own meticulous handwriting. “Some fellow named Samuels called you at the house. He said this was important.”
He took the note, kissed his wife more than dutifully on the cheek, then hurried inside.
Bloch was recognized immediately by security at the entrance and ushered straight to his old office. His successor, Raymond Nurin, wanted a word with him. The choice didn’t surprise Bloch. Nurin had never spent much time in operations, but he was competent, and a safe pick who would neither stir controversy, nor go in and turn the place upside down to put his personal stamp on things.
Once alone on the elevator, Bloch read the message his wife had taken.
Sunday, 6:00 A.M.
Found second boat chartered from Rabat in Pytor Roth’s name. 34’ Hatteras. Name Broadbill, registered in Morocco. Went to sea two weeks ago, no sign of boat or crew since.
Advise.
Samuels.
Bloch crumpled up the note and vowed to call Nathan Chatham as soon as he could with the name Broadbill. He suspected there might have been a second boat, one to carry the second weapon. The first had been chartered in Casablanca, by Wysinski and his bunch. From there it had been a dead end — but now Rabat. Roth’s name had been the key. Bloch suspected a little research might turn up more on the man. Find him, and maybe they could get to that second weapon in time.
The elevator opened and Bloch was shown to his old office. Not much had changed. There were some new, half-opened boxes of junk to take the place of his own lot, which was presently shoved against the far wall. The desk was already buried under a maelstrom of papers and files.
“Anton,” Nurin said with false familiarity and a smile. Bloch had met the man a few times, but he’d always worked in other sections, socialized in different orbits.
“Where have you been?” Nurin asked guardedly, clearly uncomfortable in the company of his predecessor. The man almost seemed intimidated, and for the very first time Anton Bloch wondered how the rank and file of the Mossad had always seen him. Perhaps some gruff and surly tyrant? Bloch discarded the thought. He didn’t much care.
“In England,” Bloch grunted, “but you already know that.”
Nurin looked embarrassed. “Well, yes. But what were you doing there?”
“Trying to figure out where that missing weapon is.”
The new boss tried to exert some control. “Anton, jetting off to Europe is not the Director of Mossad’s job. We have people who do that kind of thing. And you left your personal security detail behind.”
“I’m not the Director anymore.”
“There’s a lot of people who were nervous about where you’d gone.”
“Like who?”
Nurin huffed, clearly not liking the vector of the conversation. His tone eased, “Look Anton, we’ve got to figure this out. I’m sorry about all that’s happened, but we have to work together.”
The last thing Bloch wanted was a togetherness speech. “I went to England to find Slaton and look for any leads on where that second weapon might be.”