Steven Savile - Silver

Finally he stopped in front of a small stone. The grass around it was neatly trimmed, and a fresh bunch of sunflowers were in the small glass jar beside the headstone. Someone obviously still tended the grave regularly. She read the name and dates carved into the headstone. Akim Caspi, beloved father, cherished husband, loyal servant. There was an engraving of what appeared to be an alligator at rest at the base of the headstone. According to the dates, Caspi had died in June 2004, age 56. And if Lethe was right, that meant he was pushing up daises a month before two massive insurance payouts had been made in his name.

“There are several people who are very keen to know why the hell you’re so eager to talk to a dead man. Perhaps you would care to explain,” Uzzi Sokol asked.

She looked up from the grave to see the Israeli’s Jericho 941 pistol drawn and pointed at her. The slide was cocked and locked, Sokol’s finger a hair’s breadth from squeezing down on the trigger. The move didn’t surprise her. She’d been expecting Sokol to pull something the moment he had met her off the plane. Lethe had uploaded both sides of the photograph Ronan Frost had found in Sebastian Fisher’s Jesmond flat to the G5’s onboard computer. He had drawn a red ring around one of the faces. On the back he had underlined Akim Caspi’s name. The second photograph he had uploaded was taken directly from Caspi’s IDF file. Akim Caspi had either undergone radical reconstructive surgery and simultaneously turned the clock back about a decade, or she was looking at two very different people. In this case she was pretty sure it was the “or.” She had made a hardcopy before the plane landed. Given this turn of events, she was glad she had. Orla turned slowly so that the pistol’s black eye pointed squarely at the center of her chest.

“I think a gun is rather like a cock,” Orla said, inclining her head slightly toward the black eye. “Just because you have one doesn’t mean you have to stick it in a girl’s face.”

“Cute. You’ll excuse me if I don’t laugh. Now, answer the question.”

“It’s better if I show you,” she said. “Assuming you aren’t itching to pull the trigger on that penile extension of yours as soon as I make a move?”

“It’s a risk you will just have to take.”

She interpreted his curious inflection as an invitation to test him. Moving slowly, Orla knelt beside her case and broke the diplomatic seals. Sokol had to know that the whole purpose of the seals was to allow her to bring her Sig Sauer P228 compact into the country. “I’ve got a gun in here,” she said, releasing the clasps and opening the briefcase’s lid. “I am not going for it, but the papers I need are beneath it.”

“Open the case,” Sokol said.

Orla nodded and stood again. She lifted the lid so the case opened facing toward the Israeli. “The photographs are in the manila envelope beneath the gun. There’s more information in the files, but for now you need to see the photograph.”

Uzzi Sokol reached into the case with his free hand. His Jericho’s aim never left her heart. He teased the envelope out from beneath the Sig Sauer and stepped back, reestablishing the slight safety of distance between them. Orla could have taken the man-she was relatively certain-if she had had the inclination. And the moment to do it was now, as he was distracted taking the phoograph from the envelope. It would have been easy, throw the briefcase in his face, and as he instinctively recoiled sweep his legs out from under him. She would have had less than two seconds to disarm him, but she wouldn’t have needed more than one. Orla had no intention of turning this into a fight. Akim Caspi’s death only served to ask more questions, and the whole point of her coming to Tel Aviv had been to find answers, not get bogged down in a wild goose chase for the truth.

She waited for Sokol to slide the photograph out of the envelope.

Sokol studied the image, then grunted. “What is this supposed to prove?”

“It is a photograph of an archeological dig at the Sicarii fortress of Masada. It was taken in 2004. You might recognize some of the names on the reverse, if not their faces. They have been in the news over the last few days.”

Sokol looked at the back side of the photograph. He shook his head. Then paused, turning the photograph back over so that he could study the faces of the young archeologists again. It was obvious he was having trouble reconciling the name Akim Caspi with the face of the lieutenant general he had served under.

“This is not Caspi,” he said, finally, looking up from the photograph. “But you know that, don’t you?”

Orla nodded. “I do, although it is a fact my people have only just learned.”

Sokol made a curious clucking sound in the back of his throat, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he weighed up what he was about to say. “This is the man you wished to speak to?”

Orla nodded again.

“Why?”

“The other people in the photograph are dead,” she began. “It is the circumstances surrounding their deaths that we’re interested in.”

“And you believe this false Caspi can help you somehow?”

“Something like that. Though, of course, we thought he was the real Akim Caspi less than five hours ago.”

“How do I know this is not some sort of elaborate ruse concocted by your government?”

Orla breathed deeply and let that breath out slowly. “At precisely 1500 hours Zulu Time yesterday, thirteen people committed suicide in thirteen different European cities.”

“I watch CNN,” Sokol said. “The whole world knows what happened yesterday, and what happened in Berlin this morning. This is not news. Why should any of this be of concern to Israel?”

She pointed at the photograph.

“You’re telling me this is a photograph of those people who burned themselves alive?” He waved the photograph imperceptibly.

Orla nodded again, slowly this time. “The Masada dig is, as far as we can tell, the one thing they all have in common. I’d hoped talking to Lieutenant General Caspi might shed some light on what happened yesterday, but…” She looked down at the well-tended grave and trailed off.

“But you said this photograph was taken over five years ago. Why would you think the lieutenant general would know anything about what happened yesterday?” Uzzi Sokol stopped talking then and looked at Orla Nyren-really looked at her. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She felt dirty beneath his gaze. “Unless, and now I am reading between your rather unsubtle lines, you believe Israel is somehow behind this latest wave of terror attacks in your country? Is that what you are telling me?”

“I’m not telling you anything, Uzzi,” she said, using his name for the first time. “I don’t know anything. I’m looking for links. Leave no stone unturned. It’s the only way to do this. You’d be doing exactly the same in my place. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t be. Masada is the one constant in these people’s lives, the one place and time that links them all together. What it means, if anything, I don’t know; but if something happened there, anything that might help make sense of what’s happening now, this man, whoever he is, could be the key. All of the official records list Akim Caspi as leading the dig. That’s why I wanted to talk to him.”

“I don’t think you will find your answers in Israel,” he said without conviction.

She hadn’t expected him to say anything else. Israel was a country of secrets, and its dirtiest it kept to itself. “But you understand why I have to ask?” He nodded. “So you’re not going to shoot me, then?”›

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow, if you go stirring up trouble in my country.”