Israeli SF. Twenty metres. He couldn’t understand their shouts but he knew what would happen if he didn’t put the gun down. Now.
He looked at the dying woman. Her eyes were halfway gone, her breathing like a fucking bellows. But as Luke slowly lowered his weapon, he heard her speak.
It was just a whisper — slow, agonised, barely audible. But the words were clear enough.
‘Your friend died like a dog. He died limping like the cripple he was. He was pathetic…’
And as she delivered her insult, a defiant smile crossed her death-white face.
A sudden jolt of anger shook Luke, and he squeezed the trigger, pumping a fatal shot into her head.
Two more rounds rang out instantly. One of them missed Luke, passing a couple of inches to the right of his head. The other found its target. It pierced his back just to the right of his spine.
He slammed to the ground.
He tried to breathe, but no air reached his lungs. Two figures loomed over him. He heard them shouting. He tried to move his arms, but he had no strength. Only pain. The shouts of the soldiers dissolved into a blur.
Then there was darkness.
PART FOUR
The following day
THIRTY-THREE
There was a gentle breeze. It came from the east, but it was not so chill as to make the little crowd of fifteen people standing near Alistair Stratton’s private chapel hurry inside. They appeared quite happy to remain outside, chatting easily. The former prime minister stood on the edge of the group. He had a series of SteriStrips across his broken nose and his right eye was bruised and shiny. He was immaculately dressed, as ever. As his guests, one by one, approached to shake his hand and enquire after his well-being, he smiled brightly at them.
It had long been Stratton’s habit to invite members of the public from the nearby village to join him for the Sunday morning service. The generous benefactor. But they had been the last thing on his mind when he had walked towards the chapel that morning, discreetly flanked by his bodyguards and with Wheatly, his PA, following several metres behind. He had indulged them out of exhaustion. And guests, of course, were always delighted to rub shoulders with a man of such importance. They’d dine out on it, telling their friends of the neatly clipped lawns and topiary and of the serenity of that little chapel.
How different their experience would be if they saw Alistair Stratton’s personal office: the flat-screen television hanging loosely from the wall; the laptop computer smashed on the floor; the canvas of the Hieronymus Bosch torn; the furniture upended and one window broken. But they were never going to see that. Wheatly had locked the door and his boss’s loss of temper of the previous day had not been mentioned by anybody.
A priest in white robes appeared at the entrance to the chapel. He was a kindly old man whose only vice was an excessive love of model railways. He held his hands out in benediction. ‘Shall we, ladies and gentlemen?’
The congregation started to file in, leaving Stratton to stand outside with his PA and his close protection lingering nearby. When he did finally enter the chapel, Wheatly followed but the two close-protection men took up position on either side of the entrance. They rolled their eyes at each other once they knew they were alone. Sunday morning was the bum shift, but at least they didn’t have to sit through the service. The Grosvenor Group paid them well, but almost no money was worth having that religious shit inflicted on you every seven days. Besides, it was a pleasant morning. Peaceful. The birds were singing in the trees and it was good to be outside. As soon as they were alone they lit cigarettes, leaned against the church and started soaking up the early morning sun.
At the Mossad training academy, Ephraim Cohen stared at two images.
They were the stuff of nightmares. Of Cohen’s nightmares, at least. Maya Bloom’s face was barely recognisable. It was no surprise she’d come to a violent end.
The door opened. Ehud Blumenthal walked in. There were no niceties. He stared at Cohen for a moment like he was staring at a turd in the road.
Cohen removed his glasses. ‘Ehud,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m surprised to see you here?’
‘It’s not out of choice, I assure you, Ephraim.’
Blumenthal’s face was drawn. Grey. He looked like he’d aged fifteen years. Perhaps it was Cohen’s imagination, but a little of the arrogance he’d displayed at their last meeting seemed to have left him.
‘What’s the situation in Jerusalem?’ he asked.
‘The Temple Mount is still cordoned off. The streets of the Old Town are deserted. Everyone is waiting for a reaction.’
‘And how long will they have to wait?’
Blumenthal’s forehead creased. ‘There will be no retaliation,’ he replied.
Cohen raised an eyebrow and waited for an explanation. Blumenthal tapped the picture of the man that was lying on Cohen’s desk. ‘Whoever he was, he had two mobile phones in his pocket. They’d been adapted to act as detonators and were called within five seconds of each other at eleven o’clock. We traced the handsets that called them to a location in East Jerusalem. Sayeret Matkal went in.’
‘Anyone?’
Blumenthal shook his head. ‘But we did find something of interest. A wooden crate. Forensics confirm it had been used to carry C4 plastic explosive.’
Cohen shrugged. ‘There’s not much we can do with a wooden box,’ he said.
‘Let me finish,’ Blumenthal said. He drew a deep breath. ‘The box had a marking. It was supplied by an American company called the Grosvenor Group.’
‘I’ve heard of them?’
‘We passed this intelligence on to Washington. I’ve never seen a government react so fast.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Two days ago the Americans were shoulder to shoulder with us. Two hours ago they ordered the withdrawal of their fleet in the Red Sea, and the President has made it clear that if we want to retaliate, we’re on our own. They don’t want to know.’
Cohen blinked. It didn’t make any sense. He looked down at the pictures on his desk.
‘How did Maya end up… like this?’
‘That’s classified.’
‘My clearance is…’
‘Not high enough.’
For the first time, Blumenthal looked a little bit pleased with himself, but Cohen ignored it as he tried to fit the jigsaw together himself. Maya Bloom, somehow, had foiled a terrorist attack at the Western Wall. Was her killer in league with the bombers? It seemed the most likely explanation, but somehow it didn’t quite add up.
Blumenthal stood. ‘I’m instructed to inform you that your kidon is to be honoured posthumously,’ he said. ‘The Medal of Valour — Israel’s highest honour. It will reflect well on you, I am sure.’ As he said this, his face was sour. It was quite clear that the prospect of Ephraim Cohen’s success brought him no pleasure.
And somehow, it brought no pleasure to Cohen either. He just nodded briefly and watched as Blumenthal walked out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
The priest stood in front of the altar, two candles flickering behind him. He spoke in a strident voice that
