Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

The woman shook his hand while holding an ID wallet up for his inspection. "Come with us, Inspector," she said. "No need to waste time standing in line with all the tourists."

"Your German is perfect," Rauch observed as he walked beside her. "Your accent sounds like Berlin?"

"Very close. Potsdam. My grandparents, actually. If you remain long in Israel, you will note that almost every family speaks at least one tongue besides Hebrew. We are a nation of immigrants. Do you make a specialty of languages?"

"In my line of work, it is sometimes useful to recognize a particular dialect."

If the man, Hansel, understood German, he gave no sign of it. Instead he headed into the concourse, Rauch's bag in hand.

Rauch and the woman followed his suitcase. She politely asked the usual meaningless questions required of someone meeting a recently disembarked stranger. This was not exactly the reception a visitor on police business expected. Rauch felt more like a distant relative arriving at a family reunion.

The man in front eased his way past multiple lines of arrivees waiting their turn with customs and immigrations and, probably unknown to most, computerized facial scans by cameras concealed in the ceiling. Just short of the officials' glass booths, Hansel held open an unmarked door. Although the inspector was glad to bypass the bureaucratic traffic jam, he wished he had known the visa he had spent an hour or so securing would not be needed after all.

They entered a room without windows. There were six molded plastic chairs with legs and backs of chrome. Rauch wondered why anyone would go to such effort to make furniture look both so ugly and uncomfortable. Against the far wall was a Formica-topped table. The walls had a yellowish tint, a color someone might have thought cheerful when originally applied. It had since faded to the pigment of old nicotine.

The girl turned to him. "Forgive me for failing to introduce myself earlier. It seemed unwise in public. Lt. Heidi Strassman, Tel Aviv police."

Rauch felt a strong but not exaggerated grip. "You obviously know my name." He faced the man, hand outstretched. "And you?"

The smile was long gone from the young man; nor did he seem interested in shaking hands. "I speak no German," he said in English. "Aaron Gruber. Shin bet, national security."

Rauch withdrew his hand, frowning at the prospect of speaking English. It was not one of his greater achievements. With verbs randomly scattered about instead of neatly stacked at the end of each sentence, verbs that had no real endings, and nondeclension nouns, the language was oral chaos.

In Rauch's experience national security usually equaled some sort of intelligence operation. Why couldn't these people just admit it up front? "Might I ask what your interest in Mr. Reilly is?"

Gruber and Strassman exchanged glances before he spoke. "Your friend Reilly seems to be interested in a person also of interest to Israeli security services." She motioned him to a chair that was every bit as uncomfortable as he had anticipated. "What can you tell us about the American?"

Nothing they didn't already know, as it turned out.

"We intend to execute your request and arrest Mr. Reilly this evening," Gruber continued. "He is near a kibbutz near Gaza. Would you care to join us?"

Actually, Rauch would much rather find a hotel room with a hot shower, cool air-conditioning, and a decent dinner. He was not looking forward to the long return flight with Reilly in custody. But he said, "Of course. Thank you for asking me."

"We will go by helicopter," Gruber announced like a threat.

And it was.

Rauch was hated helicopters. From his limited experience they seemed unstable, bouncing around in the sky so that a man's stomach was in his throat as often as not. Worse, the main rotor was attached by what he understood was called the Jesus nut: If it came loose, you were going to see Jesus very soon.

"Helicopter?" he asked, hoping they could not see the blood he imagined was draining from his face.

"Helicopters," Gruber repeated. Rauch Was sure the young man was enjoying his discomfort. "We have three waiting for us if you're ready, Inspector."

Thoughts of helicopters eclipsed those of dinner. In fact, Rauch was feeling a little nauseated already.

Just Outside Kibbutz Zion

An Hour Later

Prone in the sand, Lang and Jacob watched the kibbutz from a slight rise that gave them a view of most of the compound. Family by family, the inhabitants walked to the dining hall, the last arriving just as the day's last light leached from the western sky. Almost immediately the date trees began to speak, with fronds rustling in the breeze that sprang up from the ocean.

Both men waited a few more minutes until it was totally dark before standing.

"I didn't see anyone on lookout duty," Lang observed, dusting off as much sand as possible.

"This close to the wogs, they'd jolly well have some sort of sentry," Jacob said. "Most likely electronic sensors- visual, motion-detecting, or both."

"I looked pretty close when we drove by in the truck this morning. Didn't see any."

"You wouldn't. They'd be concealed, most likely in those two palm trees at the entrance."

"Easy enough to take care of. And from seeing "someone carry three lunch plates from the mess hall, it's also likely that Alicia has a couple of guards around the clock. Just like we guessed from the satellite shot."

Jacob stooped to pick up a backpack and shifted it onto his shoulders. "As we planned, you handle them. I'll handle diverting everyone else."

Lang took a last look at the lights spilling from open windows before both men started down the hill. He savored the familiar tingle of his scalp, the chill down his spine, the almost narcotic high of pending action. It was a feeling a lawyer and head of a charitable foundation did not often enjoy.

He had missed it.

Just outside the entrance they stopped. Silently, Jacob made a circling motion. Each man walked in a wide arc before returning to the point of beginning.

"You're right," Lang said. "There's something in that tree besides coconuts."

Jacob was studying the trees with the night-vision goggles. He pulled them up on his forehead. "Two small cameras on each, angled to cover anyone going or coming."

Lang squatted, bringing the outline of the kibbutz into focus against the starry sky. "And I suppose the fence is either electrified or has a trip wire."

Jacob put the goggles on again to have a look himself. "Bloody unlikely the fence is charged-too great a risk of killing someone's livestock. We can cut through it."

"That's sure to trip whatever alarm system they have."

"Right you are. Perhaps we can dig under it."

The two approached the triple strands of wire, careful to keep out of the field of view of the tree-mounted cameras.

Lang stooped to reach under the fence. "Shit! Concrete-they've poured cement under the fence. We'd need a jackhammer to dig under it." He stood and looked across the kibbutz. "But I bet their date orchard isn't inside the fence."

"So what?" Jacob asked. "We're not here to steal effing dates."

"Maybe not," Lang conceded, "but let's see."

Keeping low to prevent presenting a silhouette, they skirted the fence line as it turned a corner. Minutes later they could see the stately palm trees against the night sky. As they got closer it became clear the palms would be on their left and the fence to the right.

"Now what?" Jacob asked. "You planning to climb a tree like some sodding monkey?"

Lang was moving along the fence line. "Exactly."

"And do what, jump? Fit to fight wed be, what with broken legs."

"I don't think that's necessary if we can-"

Lang stopped so suddenly Jacob almost collided with his back in the dark.