Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

Despite Jacob's assurances, Lang could not dispel the jitters until the two men were ensconced in a Mercedes limousine dispatched to fetch them by Jacob's former employer. He would have preferred the anonymity of simply meeting the Egged Bus Cooperative line at its exit on Sharon Street in Airport City and riding the shuttle that ran to Tel Aviv's Hotel Row.

"Don't be daft," Jacob had said. "You take the bleedin' bus an' Zwelk'll know you're here before you even get into town."

"He's not expecting us," Lang said.

Jacob shook his head. "If he has access to Echelon, he's got somebody in Mossad, somebody who might trip to the search I had run on him. And who's to say he doesn't have access to the photo that's taken of every arrival?"

Good advice, Lang recalled from his Agency training. One of the best ways to cease being a living fool was to assume the ignorance of your opponent.

You likely became a dead fool.

The Mercedes exited the airport road in the middle of the city. The windshield was filled with high-rises, modern buildings picketing the blue Mediterranean now turning an oily black in the twilight. They turned away from the sea to proceed down Rothschild Boulevard, lined with large and expensive-looking town houses and towering office buildings. Lang recognized the logos of IBM and AT amp;T among other letters of American industrial alphabet soup. The inhabitants' driving reminded Lang of Rome or Naples: Horns were preferred to brakes.

The Mercedes glided across three lanes of aggressive traffic and slid down an entrance ramp under a glass-and-steel tower, which turned out to be a residence building that would have fit unnoticed into Manhattan's Upper East Side.

Once out of the elevator, Lang followed Jacob down a hall of identical doors until he stopped in front of one distinguishable only by its number. Lang suspected the similarity with its neighbors stopped at the door as he set down his single bag. Few apartments on the street were likely to have door locks as sophisticated as bank vaults, nor would they have steel mesh just inside the windows, letting in light but screening out unpleasant items such as grenades that might somehow make their way through glass that was probably bulletproof.

In a corner of the unfurnished living room were two packages. Jacob inspected each carefully and started to carry the larger toward the back of the apartment. "Like something left by Saint Nick, what? You'll be wanting to open yours."

Lang did so. Inside were two SIG Sauer P226s, two spare clips, loaded, and a belt clip holster.

A pistol in each hand, he walked back to where Jacob was unwrapping what looked like a child's chemistry set. "I appreciate somebody's thoughtfulness, but two guns? That somebody must have thought I was the Lone Ranger."

Jacob straightened up from his package and came over to inspect both weapons carefully. "That makes me…?"

"Tonto."

"Sodding Tonto." He took the automatic in Lang's right hand. "This is for me." "There's a difference?"

Jacob told him.

"Sounds like you have a plan."

Jacob nodded. "That I do, lad. But first let's see what in the nature of sustenance might have been left for us."

In the small kitchen Lang started to ask about the meat in the sandwiches but thought better of it. From previous experience, he knew the cold beer had to be better than the astringent Israeli wine.

Jacob spread a map on the Formica of the tabletop, anchoring it north to south with a plate and a beer bottle. "Here we are"-he pointed-"and here's Zwelk's kibbutz."

Even though he was aware of how small Israel was, Lang was surprised at the proximity. "Looks like it's not more than sixty, seventy kilometers."

Jacob squinted. "Pretty close. It's less than one kilometer from the Gaza Strip."

"Why would anyone want to live there? I mean, you're right next to a bunch of Palestinians who want to kill you."

Jacob swallowed the rest of a sandwich. "Which means you don't have a lot of Jewish neighbors to snoop into whatever you're doing. Besides, since the government removed Jewish settlers from Gaza and put up a fence, the Arabs have been more or less peaceful. Then there was the war in the summer of 'oh-six. Although that was mostly along the Lebanon border, it brought in U.N. peacekeepers, quieted Hamas and Hezbollah down a bit. All in all, I'd say Zwelk has got himself an ideal place."

Lang was still studying the map. "Ideal defensively, anyway."

His BlackBerry beeped.

"Yes, Sara?"

"I spent the morning following up on tracking Ms. Warner."

"And?"

"She hasn't shown up for work since a little over a week ago. Two days after anyone there saw her she called in, said her mother was in the hospital after a car wreck and she wanted to take vacation time to be with her."

"And that's it?"

"Not exactly. I called the DOJ in Denver, the city where she worked before coming to Atlanta. I said I was her mother and was trying to locate her."

"And?"

"Her mother was in an auto accident, all right. Only it was ten years ago and fatal."

Lang sat down at the kitchen table. "As always, you've been very helpful. Thanks."

"That's not all," Sara's voice protested before he could disconnect. "You got a very strange e-mail today."

"I get strange e-mails every day, mostly from spammers trying to sell worthless stock."

"Not this one. It said…" There was the sound of tapping keys. "Yeah, here it is. I quote, Alicia asks you come soonest.'"

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Lang thought a moment. "Reply. Ask where I should come and when. Anything you can do to delay."

"Like saying you're out of town and will respond when you return?"

"That's as good as any other reply."

Lang glanced at his watch, estimating how long the conversation had lasted and wondering if Zwelk's eavesdropper was recording it. "Call me if anything else happens."

"Lang, before you go, the mayor said to tell you-"

He disconnected.

Jacob put down a beer bottle. "Bad news?"

"Only a confirmation that the woman's been missing from work."

Jacob lifted a shaggy eyebrow and Lang explained.

Jacob raised the beer bottle to the light. "Already empty. Don't understand why we Jews can't bottle it in a proper pint." He looked at Lang. "At least you know she's alive. If Zwelk intended her harm, there'd be no reason to keep her once he had your attention."

Lang finished his beer. "You're a real comfort."

"I try." He paused. "Oh, I forgot to give you this. Our limo driver handed it to me as we got out."

He extended to Lang a photograph of the kibbutz.

"It was taken this morning."

Lang studied it for a full minute. "So? What's different?"

Jacob came around the table and pointed to the lower left corner. "See?"

Lang moved the photo back and forth. "See what?"

"There's a figure of a person there. From the high angle we can't be sure if it's a man or a woman. But look at the color of the hair."

Red.

Alicia Warner red.

Jacob was fumbling for his pipe. "Unless there's an abnormal incidence of Jewish carrottops, I'd say we may have found your lady friend."

Subahnhof Police Station

Wiedner Gurtel

Vienna

The Next Morning

Chief Inspector Rauch reread the e-mail from Scotland Yard and shook his head. Langford Reilly had been in England only long enough to disappear again, slipping through the much-heralded fingers of the world's most famous police organization. Of course, in dealing with British or American police, suspects frequently went free even after being captured. Writs of habeas corpus, jury trials, rights against self-incrimination-it was a wonder the English-speaking justice system convicted anyone.

Nonetheless, Rauch's superiors had authorized Reilly's extradition for questioning, and the inspector's life would go a lot easier once he had been found, interrogated, and either charged or released. It was as if Rauch himself were responsible for English incompetence.