steps into the narrow corridor. A figure of a man was just disappearing around the corner at the end of the hall when Potok snapped off a shot, the bullet hitting the man in the back of his left leg just behind his knee. He cried out and crashed to the floor. Potok rushed forward and coming around the corner he dropped into a shooter’s stance, both hands on his pistol trained on the center of the man’s forehead.
The Russian was short and squat with thick dark hair and narrow pig’s eyes. With one hand he was holding his leg, in the other was a big pistol. He was looking up at Potok, a thin sneer on his lips. He started to raise his pistol. “Is it worth it, Comrade” Potok said evenly.
Liebowitz was just off his left shoulder. In the distance they could hear a lot of sirens. The Russian’s eyes flicked to him, and after a tense moment he shook his head and slumped back, letting the gun slip from his hand. Potok stepped forward and gingerly kicked the gun out of the Russian’s reach. “Call an ambulance he told Liebowitz. “But keep everyone else out of here. We don’t want to disturb any evidence of this one’s drug dealings, do we”
It was late evening and in the past three hours they had made very little progress. The bullet had been removed from the Russian’s leg, his wound patched up, and he had been taken immediately to the military side of Lod Airport outside of Tel Aviv. AMAN, Israel’s Military Intelligence Service, had of course agreed to cooperate with the Mossad and had lent the use of one of the prisoner interrogation units. The building was off on its own and absolutely secure. A search of the apartment had turned up nothing more than the Russian’s forged Israeli passport under the name of Norman Katz. But Mossad files across town had come up with his photograph and a brief dossier identifying him as Viktor Nikolaievich Voronsky, a minor KGB legman who had last been spotted working in Damascus. He had apparently disappeared from view six months ago, but he had been considered of such minor importance that no search had been made for him.
Voronsky sat in an ordinary wooden chair across the table from Liebowitz. He had been given no drugs for his wound, and it was evident on his face that he was in considerable pain. Potok leaned against the door on the opposite side of the small smoke-filled room. So far they had not revealed the fact that they knew Voronsky’s real name, or that they had been monitoring Ins telephone conversations for the past several days. “Just your name” Liebowitz started again patiently. “I’ve told you a hundred times, you bastards, my name is … “Voronsky” Potok interrupted from where he stood. The Russian’s head snapped up, his eyes opening wide for just a moment, but then narrowing. He shrugged and sat back in his chair. “So, ji4ck you” he said in Russian “And your mother” Potok replied in the same language. Again surprise showed on Voronsky’s face. Potok came forward, pulling the extra chair around so that he could straddle it, his arms draped over the back. “Viktor Nikolaievich, you are in very deep shit at this moment. But I suppose you know that” Voronsky shrugged. “Deport me” Potok smiled. “Oh, no, Niki, it is not going to be that easy, unless of course you wish to cooperate with us”
“I’m a spy, if that’s what you want. I will be exchanged within thirty days in any event. We have a number of your friends rotting at this moment in Damascus. You can’t believe the conditions Potok smiled gently again. It stopped the Russian. “Ali, but you should ask some of your PLO terrorist friends what our internment camps are Ue” The Russian looked to Liebowitz. “I demand to speak to someone from my interest section in the Hungarian Embassy” he said. Liebowitz spread his hands. “Seems to me that you’ve already done enough talking with them, Comrade Voronsky. “What are you talking about? What is this”
“We’re gangsters, Niki” Potok said. “Isn’t that what you’ve been calling us for the past ten years or so”
“Then I demand to speak with your supervisor. I want these proceedings recorded” Voronsky glanced at the tape recorder set up on the table.
“Just a few questions” Potok said. He nodded at Liebowitz who switched on the tape machine. I I … June thirtieth, yes I understand”
Voronsky’s voice came from the speaker. Liebowitz reached out and switched off the machine. “Let’s begin with that date, Niki. June thirtieth. What is going to happen on that day? Something very bad for Israel” Voronsky reared back as if he had been slapped, the sudden movement hurting his leg, and he nearly cried out in pain. “Sonofabitch … I demand my rights”
“What rights”
“Under Israeli and international law Potok was shaking his head.
“Israeli law applies only to Israeli citizens. Not you, Niki. And we do not recognize your so-called international law. But then neither do you.
Here you are completely beyond any law. June thirtieth”
Voronsky shook his head. Liebowitz shifted the tape forward. 11 …
advised of any unusual activity in or around the target facility”
“The target, Niki, is it going to be attacked on June thirtieth? Is that it” Potok asked. He nodded for Liebowitz again. Now more than before this has become an extremely important project to him. Especially after our German failure. “Who is this man spoken of, Niki? And what German failure? What happened in Gennany” Voronsky was still shaking his head.
Potok got up from his chair, withdrew his pistol, cocked the hammer, and, before Voronsky could move, jammed the barrel into the side of the Russian’s head. Liebowitz jumped up and tried to stop him. It was part of the routine.
“Nyetthe Russian cried. “Talk to us, Niki. his all we ask”
“Lev” Liebowitz said urgently. “If you don’t want to watch, then get the hell out of here, but I’m going to blow this bastard’s brains all over this cell unless he talks to me”
“Lev” Liebowitz said again, pulling Potok aside. “Outside. Now” There was something in Liebowitz’s tone, in the expression on his face, that penetrated. Potok stepped back, and nodded. Something was wrong. It wasn’t part of the script. Outside the cell, the door closed, Liebowitz was shaking. “The German failure they talked about. I know what it is”
“Yes”
“It was on the news, for God’s sake. But it didn’t mean anything to me until just now. I swear ““That””
“The terrorists at Ramstein Air Force Base. They stole a Pershing missile. Set it up downtown” Potok suddenly did see it all, and he could feel the blood draining from his face. “En Gedi”
“Yes” Liebowitz said. “They know! The bastards know, and they’re going to try again There was a tremendous crash and the sounds of something breaking from within the cell. Potok clawed the door open in time to see that Voronsky had smashed the tape recorder on the floor and had a long, jagged shard of plastic casing in his right hand. “No” Potok shouted, leaping forward, but he was too late. Voronsky in a last desperate act drew the edge of the plastic shard across his neck, once, twice, a third time, blood spurting everywhere as he sliced through major arteries, and his breath suddenly giving a big slobbering gurgle as he actually managed to cut through his windpipe.
McGarvey had arrived at Tel Aviv’s Lod airport shortly before six in the evening. At seven sharp he paid off his cabbie and strode into the Uri Dan Hotel, his single leather overnight bag slung over his shoulder. On the flight over from Paris he had asked himself a dozen times why he had agreed to Trotter’s assignment. And each time he came up with the same answer: Baranov. It was an unfinished business for him.
The Russian would not give up so easily. And since Kurshin had disappeared, it was a safe bet that he would be involved in whatever else happened. “Baranov’s handmaiden perhaps” an extremely strungout Trotter had said. “But Kurshin in his own fight is a very accomplished man. A very dangerous man”
“So I understand” McGarvey said dryly.
They had met this time at a small anonymous sidewalk cafe on the left bank. It was noon and the place was crowded. No one paid any attention to them. “They’ll try again. I don’t know where or how, but I do know the target”
“Not Tripoli” Trotter glanced around at the other patrons in the cafe and at traffic along the busy Boulevard St. Germain. “En Gedi” he said softly. “In the Middle East somewhere” McGarvey asked. He’d never heard of the place. “Israel. South shore of the Dead Sea”
“What’s there” Again Trotter hesitated. “Ostensibly a research reactor”
“Ostensibly” Trotter leaned forward. “Kirk, this is top-secret information. If you open your mouth at the wrong time or place they’ll have your ass” McGarvey said nothing. “We think it’s a weapons stockpile”
“Nuclear” Trotter nodded. “Then it’s true after all” Again Trotter nodded. McGarvey looked away, across the boulevard as a truck rumbled past. “It’s something Baranov would go after”
