Stephen Cannell - The Plan

Ben Gurion Airport was in Lod, outside Tel Aviv and ninety minutes by car from Jerusalem. The airport was small but modern. Security was stringent.

The planes didn't taxi up to ramps, but were left out on an expansive tarmac, where the travelers deplaned, then got aboard big buses to be taken to the terminal. Cole explained that the process of open tarmac deplaning allowed for fighter security.

Kaz, Cole, Ryan, and Lucinda stepped off the El Al plane and were struck by the heat and humidity. It was over 100 degrees and moist. Their clothes immediately stuck to them as they moved down the steps of the plane to the ground transportation. Cole knew Israel well. He'd covered a lot of stories there. He had decided they would stay in the Hotel Carlton in Tel Aviv. The international bar there had always been a news hangout. Then he would find somebody at Reuters he could pump for information. He needed to find out everything he could about Gavriel Bach's family. . Was his widow still alive? Where were his children? Where would his personal effects be? Cole knew they had damn little to go on. They were ten thousand miles from home, looking for a bunch of illegal wiretaps given to a dead Israeli prosecutor twenty-five years ago. Even if they still existed, the tapes might have nothing of value on them. Yet, they were following that feeble lead halfway around the world.

Customs took an hour. Finally, they walked through the turnstiles, past the uniformed Israeli guards with their shiny jackboots and shoulder-mounted Uzis. On their way to the taxi stand, they passed a short, skinny Arab in khaki shorts and a T-shirt, smoking a Turkish cigarette.

Akmad Jarrar saw the four Americans and assumed they were the ones he'd been looking for. The handsome man wasn't on crutches, as the Ghost had said, but he moved with a slight limp. The girl was indeed beautiful.

He followed them out into the sunlight and watched as they got into a Subaru taxicab that pulled out into the traffic, heading toward Tel Aviv. He waved his hand and his own rented blue Mitsubishi screeched up to the curb with two men inside. Behind the wheel was Frydek Mistek, a German terrorist who was ideologically damaged by his love of money. He had worked on several hits with the Ghost in the old days when the CIA was doing covert sanctions. Frydek was a good second man. He was nondescript, average in every way except for his aptitude for violence. In the backseat was Yossi Rot, a slender man with Jewish good looks and dark curly ringlets. He had once been a "powder man" for the Mossad, but he'd drifted into the netherworld of freelance operators.

They all spoke in English. Akmad pointed to the car with the Americans. "Stay close. . Taxis are easy to lose."

Frydek accelerated and followed the Japanese taxi into the City of Mirrors.

The highway sloped down, losing elevation as they headed east toward Tel Aviv. To the south, a jagged coastline framed Jaffa Harbor where the first Zionist pioneers had landed in 1882. Ancient stone buildings stood guard along the coast, baking in the somnolent heat. The city of Tel Aviv blended into the outskirts of Jaffa.

They dropped down farther and soon were on the broad, paved streets of the city. Tel Aviv was as modern as L. A. and as ancient as the Bible. It reflected the best and the worst-a city of mirrors.

They moved down Shenkin Street and turned onto Allenby Road, and, before long, they pulled up to the hotel. The Carlton was a five-story architectural mistake that had been located in what became a business district when the city grew to the north. Journalists liked it because the switchboard was secure, the location was central, and you could get sloshed on two or three drinks at the "international bar," where the policy was to pour doubles for anybody with a press pass.

Ryan handed over the cash and they booked two rooms. In five minutes, they were all upstairs in Cole and Kaz's cubicle, which overlooked the shops on Allenby. An old air conditioner wheezed and coughed tepid air into the threadbare room. Cole was sitting on the bed, using the phone, trying to find somebody at Reuters who could help them. None of the old crowd seemed to work there anymore. He'd tried names of five journalists who were no longer assigned to Tel Aviv when he remembered Naomi Zur, an American woman he'd always had a thing for. She was a photojournalist and he'd tried for months to get her in the sack, but she was in love with an Israeli colonel. The phone was ringing her extension, and after a moment, he heard a familiar husky female voice.

"Photo Ops, Naomi Zur speaking."

"I've been trying to get this burnoose on and I can't remember. . Do you wrap the east end under the crown or do you hook it behind your ear and tuck it in back?" he said, recalling a time they both had tried to infiltrate a Palestinian refugee camp to get a story. Cole made a lousy Arab and almost got them killed.

"Jesus, Cole. . If you're back, I'm gonna put in for an immediate transfer."

"Hey, Naomi, it wasn't that bad. How 'bout lunch at the restaurant downstairs in the Kolbo Shalom?"

Reuters was located directly over one of Tel Aviv's largest shopping centers, dominated by the Kolbo Shalom department store.

"Who's buying?" She remembered that Cole had a reputation for never picking up tabs.

"That's why they put those matchbooks in the ashtrays, Naomi, so people can draw straws."

And then he couldn't help himself. . "By the way, how's Uri?"

"He died. Land mine," she said flatly.

"I'm sorry." Cole remembered the ruggedly handsome Israeli war hero who had risked his life countless times. "See you in an hour. . I'll buy this time."

He lunged off the bed and grabbed his light coat and headed for the door.

* *

After Cole left, Ryan and Lucinda went to their room down the hall. Kaz sat for a long time on his bed lost in thought. He decided they needed to get hold of some ordnance. Something told him that wandering around Tel Aviv, unarmed, was dangerous. And stupid. He figured that buying arms in Tel Aviv couldn't be too tough. He locked the door and headed down the hall to Ryan's room to get some cash. He paused in front of the door when he heard a sound inside and realized it was Lucinda moaning. The breathy gasps were accompanied by the gentle tapping of the headboard against the wall. Kaz, concerned for her safety, almost knocked but caught himself at the last moment.

Jesus, he thought, it's been so long since I got laid I almost didn't recognize the music. He decided to find a dealer and bring him back here. A few minutes later, he was out in the bustling street.

Akmad Jarrar spotted him from the front seat of the blue Mitsubishi, then got out and followed on foot.

The restaurant in the Kolbo Shalom Center was on the second level and overlooked the harbor. The food was international and the clientele was strictly business.

Cole could hear four or five different languages and the tenor and tone of the conversations were intense. Spreadsheets were pored over, cell phones rang, while watercress salads and shish kebab were ferried around on pewter trays.

Tel Aviv had become a business mecca, where the emerging Eastern democracies were spreading their wings on the currents of Israeli financing.

Naomi Zur walked into the room wearing a tailored shooting jacket. She had her black hair pulled back in a bun and her shirt tied in a knot at her waist. She wore no makeup. At almost five-nine, she was a truly striking woman. She spotted him and, with black eyes twinkling, moved toward him. They were eye-to-eye as they embraced. She squeezed his hand before sitting down across from him.

"You look like the cover for the desert edition of Vogue."

"You're such a fucking liar, Cole, but thanks." She smiled and grabbed the menu. "So you're buying?"