Chris Ryan - Killing for the Company

‘We’ll find her,’ Cohen replied with no trace of a smile. ‘The word is out. She can’t hide for long.’

Maya inclined her head. ‘When she pops up,’ she said, ‘ I should be the one.’

For a moment Cohen didn’t reply. When he did, his voice was even softer. ‘There is a whisper in Tel Aviv,’ he said, ‘that the kidon Maya Bloom takes too personal an interest in her work. This is a whisper, Maya, that I can safely ignore, isn’t it?’

Maya sniffed disdainfully. ‘I serve Israel,’ she said, ‘and the Institute.’

‘Your allegiance to the Institute is noted,’ Cohen said lightly.

They walked on for twenty metres in silence, ignoring the strident bell of a cyclist, who was forced to swerve off the path and on to the grass to pass them.

‘You understand the importance of what you did last night?’ Cohen asked once the cyclist was gone.

‘I just do what I’m told.’

‘Of course. But I want you to know why, Maya. It will help you in the future. You think the Institute has any real interest in a former British soldier with one leg, or in his girlfriend?’

‘It depends what they’ve been up to, I suppose.’

‘Indeed it does, Maya. Indeed it does. Would you like some coffee?’

They had reached a road running through the greenery, where a small white catering van had parked up. Cohen politely requested two cups of black coffee from the overweight woman behind the serving hatch. He handed one to Maya, took a sip of his own and they carried on walking.

‘The truth is,’ Cohen continued, ‘that I don’t know what they’ve been up to. All I know is this: it was Prime Minister Stratton himself who ordered their removal.’

Maya stopped and looked at him. ‘Are we servants for the British now?’ The thought angered her.

Cohen smiled. ‘Hardly that, Maya. Hardly that.’ He looked around the park. ‘A green and pleasant land,’ he murmured. ‘But every land has its secrets. Britain is not alone in that.’

‘But why us? Britain has its own… resources.’

‘True, it does. But the British intelligence services are reluctant to have their people do what you do on home soil. They feel the scope for errors is too great. It is dangerous for their director to claim innocence in matters of political assassinations if its own people are carrying out such actions. You never know.’ He smiled again. ‘We are lucky, Maya. The Institute makes no real secrecy of its actions. Our own assassinations are personally signed off by our prime minister. It makes life a lot easier.’

‘I still don’t understand why my orders come from London and not Tel Aviv.’

‘Your orders come from me,’ Cohen said, with a hint of sharpness in his voice.

‘And where do your orders come from?’

Cohen didn’t like that. She could sense it. It took a few seconds for him to reply, and he sounded like he was choosing his words with even greater care than usual. ‘We operate on British soil with the sanction of the British Government,’ he said. ‘When we need to do something here, they turn a blind eye — provided we are discreet, of course. In return, if the British have a problem of a sensitive nature on their own soil, they sometimes come to us. These occasional favours we perform for them are of great benefit to us, Maya. They are of great benefit to Israel.’ He took a sip from his coffee and looked straight ahead.

‘Is that all I am?’ Maya asked. ‘Someone who does favours?’

‘Your allegiance to the Institute, Maya,’ Cohen echoed his earlier statement, ‘is noted.’ She immediately understood that that part of their conversation was over. But it didn’t make her like it any the more.

Up ahead, two mounted policemen were trotting towards them. They stepped aside and let them pass. ‘The police presence is high,’ Maya observed.

‘As is the terror threat,’ Cohen replied. ‘London is not quite so dangerous as Jerusalem, but it’s not far off. Everybody knows what is coming.’

‘This war…’ Maya murmured. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘What do you mean?’

Maya stopped and looked around. ‘Find me one British person in this park who thinks Britain should invade Iraq. In Tel Aviv or Jerusalem it’s different. The Arabs would crush us tomorrow if they had the chance. But Britain?’ She made a contemptuous sound from behind her teeth. ‘Why should they care? Why is Stratton so keen to take them into a war that nobody wants?’

‘I don’t know. To be frank with you, Maya, I don’t care. A coalition invasion of Iraq is good for Israel.’

‘I wish I was involved in that,’ Maya said.

‘You are, in your way.’

‘Not like Amit.’

It was the name of Maya’s brother that caused Cohen to stop once more. He gave Maya a serious look, then glanced round until he spotted an empty bench. ‘Let’s sit over there,’ he said. ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Please, Maya. Let’s sit down.’

‘I don’t want to sit down. Something’s happened. What is it, Ephraim?’

Cohen’s brow furrowed. ‘It’s Amit,’ he said quietly.

‘What? What? ’

‘He’s dead, Maya. I’m sorry.’

She blinked at him as a dreadful sensation coursed through her body. She saw her brother in her mind: the short, stocky frame and rumpled dark hair. The only person in the world that she cared about. The only person in the world that she loved.

‘You’re lying,’ she said.

But she could tell from the way that Cohen shook his head that he wasn’t.

Everything fell away: the pain in her cheek, the anger, the cold.

‘You should sit down, Maya. You don’t look well.’

‘How did it happen?’ She turned on him and they were standing so close that he was forced to look up at her.

‘ How did it happen? ’

Cohen bowed his head. ‘He was behind enemy lines. Iraq. There was a firefight and Amit took a bullet. It killed him instantly. He died bravely, Maya. Serving his country. You should be proud of that.’

His words were like a torch to paper: Maya felt herself burning up. ‘Proud?’ she demanded incredulously. ‘ Proud? The fucking Arabs killed my parents, Ephraim.’

‘I know your history, Maya,’ Cohen said mildly.

‘ No! All you know is what you read in a file. I was seven years old, Amit was eight. We saw our mother lying in the street in Tel Aviv without her arms. Without her fucking arms, Ephraim! And my father — there wasn’t even anything left of him. And now you tell me I should be proud that these Arab dogs have killed Amit…’

‘Perhaps I chose my words poorly…’

‘Perhaps you did.’ Maya’s face was contorted with terrible pain. If she had been the type of person to shed tears, she would have wept. But her cheeks remained dry even though her insides were burning up with anger and grief. Her body shook, and she stormed away from Ephraim, towards the bench he had pointed out. Sitting down, she put her head in her hands and remained that way for a minute, maybe longer. Gradually she became aware that Cohen was sitting next to her.

‘You have my condolences,’ he murmured.

‘I don’t want your fucking pity.’

‘I didn’t offer you my pity. I offered you my condolences. I shan’t do it again. Sit up, Maya.’

She ignored him.

There was a pause of about ten seconds. When Cohen spoke again, his voice was quieter, but a good deal firmer. ‘If you ignore an instruction of mine once more, Maya, I shall assume that the Institute no longer has need of your services.’

Maya felt herself sneer behind her palms, but she recognised the severity in her handler’s voice, and she knew he was not the type to make threats idly. Slowly she removed her hands from her face and sat up again, though she refused to look directly at him.