Stella Rimington: Dead Line

‘Yes. He’s got the most marvellous nose. On a grouse moor you often can’t see where the bird drops, because of the heather, but with a dog like this it doesn’t matter. The Israelis told me that they thought the Syrian President would be particularly interested – it seems he shoots a lot.’

Liz watched as the dog reached the island and scrambled up onto the low clumps of marsh grass. It began circling, its nose on the ground, and soon it was heading for the solitary tree.

‘Oh no,’ the handler groaned.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘He’s gone right past it. I buried it about three feet from the bank where he got out of the water. What’s wrong with him?’

But it was clear that Kreuzer was on the scent of something; as he approached the tree his ears pricked up and he was sniffing deeply, rapidly. Suddenly he stopped, stuck his nose deep into the grass and started tugging fiercely with his teeth, once, twice, and then suddenly he raised his head, and in his mouth, gripped firmly but gently in his jaws, was a small package. It was wrapped in some sort of green cloth, and looked rather like a roll of silver cutlery, bound neatly in the middle with a cloth tie.

Liz was thinking hard about Jana – what could she have done? Given the dog another scent. But why? And then she remembered. Kollek’s hair – Naomi from the Israeli Embassy had said that his hair had been inexplicably wet that evening when he had gone off on his own. He’d been here! Of course. It was Kollek who had chosen this entertainment. He’d been here and he’d swum out to the island to plant his own decoy for the dog. But his would be deadly.

‘He’s found something else!’ the handler exclaimed.

‘What if he’s been given another scent? After the one you gave him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just what I said,’ Liz snapped. ‘If you gave him a scent, but then someone else gave him another scent, would he go for the second one?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s the last scent he’ll track. But I don’t see-’

‘Can you stop the dog?’ Liz interrupted. Kreuzer had re-entered the water, and was paddling back, head held high to keep the package in its jaws above the surface.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Can you keep the dog from coming here? Tell me! Quick! Can you do it?’ No time now to get a marksman to shoot the dog. The handler looked baffled but obeyed. She put two fingers in her mouth and produced a high, braying whistle. The dog stopped swimming, lifting its head, the cloth package still safely in its jaws. But then it started off again, heading steadily back to shore.

‘Do it again,’ said Liz. ‘Please. Quick. Stop him.’

Again the hand went up to the woman’s mouth, and again came a high-pitched whistle, even louder. This time the dog stopped, with a questioning look in its eyes. The handler gave a short blast on her whistle, and suddenly the dog swivelled like a seal in the water and began paddling slowly back towards the island. Liz held her breath while the handler looked at her angrily. ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘Why are we doing this?’

She suddenly went quiet as Liz raised a warning hand; she was in no mood to be challenged, not until she knew it was safe and that she had been wrong. She would be happy then – more than happy – to take whatever criticism came her way.

The dog reached the island and pulled itself up onto the bank, though more slowly than before – Kreuzer was tired. He panted like a swimmer who’d crossed the Channel, yet he still held the package tightly in his mouth as he vigorously shook the water from his coat. If there was anything wrong with that package we’d know by now, thought Liz, as water sprayed from the dog’s taut skin.

Suddenly the ground shook and simultaneously Liz heard the deafening noise of an explosion. On the island, a mound of earth lifted straight into the air and separated into thousands of tiny pieces that fell slowly into the lake, followed by an enormous cloud of dust.

The shock wave rolled over the spectators, rocking Liz back onto her heels as she winced from the sudden pain in both her ears. On the lake, the water rose up like a geyser, momentarily obscuring all sight of the island. When the air cleared at last, a crater the size of a large lorry had been dug out of the island’s earth. Of Kreuzer there was no sign.

Next to Liz, the dog handler was staring white-faced at the remains of the island. Behind her, there was complete silence among the spectators. Liz looked back, but they were all standing just as they had been; no one seemed to have been hurt. Fortunately, they had all been far enough away.

The silence was broken by the Syrian President. Turning to the Israeli Prime Minister and smiling broadly, he clapped his hands together in apparent delight, then clapped again. The rest of the Syrian delegation seemed to rouse themselves, and followed their President’s lead by clapping dutifully as well, joined a moment later by the Israelis. Soon the applause of all the spectators echoed around the edges of the little lake.

The Syrian President leaned over and said something to the Israeli Prime Minister, who turned and spoke urgently to Ari Block. The Mossad man looked back at Liz. ‘Wonderful!’ he shouted with an enthusiastic smile. ‘The President asks if there will be more fireworks like this one.’

Thank God for diplomacy, thought Liz, as the sound of police sirens echoed round the grounds. She would probably never know how much the Syrians really knew about the background to the explosion, but their President had obviously decided that the evening was going to be a success whatever happened. And as no one had been killed, except poor Kreuzer, a success it would be.

It was Private Grossman who saw the footprint. Lieutenant Wilentz was leading the other men to the truck after they’d stopped for a ten-minute break when Grossman called out: ‘Sir!’

‘What is it?’ the lieutenant shouted irritably. They’d been out here on the Golan Plateau for over six hours, and everyone wanted to get back – to hot showers, hot food, and cold air-conditioning. The dry season had been unusually prolonged and the temperature was an unseasonal eighty-five. In the distance, the snow-covered peaks of the Mount Hermon range shimmered in the heat like a tempting icecream.

‘There’s a footprint here,’ said Grossman, pointing to the dust lying thickly on the packed earth of the track.

Wilentz came over at once. They were two miles from the Quneitra Crossing, the one official access point between Israel and Syria, though it operated strictly one-way – young Syrians living in the occupied Golan Heights were allowed into their former homeland to pursue their studies, but could only return to their families once a year.

There were frequent incursions; most recently Hezbollah had been active in the area, even setting off landmines on the Syrian side in an effort to ratchet up the tension between the neighbouring states. There was growing concern among the Israeli army command that Hezbollah would venture onto the Israeli side as well, which was why Wilentz and his patrol were there.

The officer studied the print, Grossman beside him. ‘It’s pointing towards the border,’ said the younger man, trying to sound analytic. He was only eighteen.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Lieutenant Wilentz, who tried to be tolerant with the soldiers under his command. Most of them were kids like Grossman, doing their National Service. ‘But,’ he added, ‘that’s not the most important thing. Look at the footprint. Does it tell you anything else?’

Grossman looked down at the indentation in the dust, wondering what he was missing. ‘It looks freshly made,’ he said.