FIFTY-TWO
Ben Gurion International Airport
Lod, Israel
Fifteen kilometers south of Tel Aviv
Monday Evening
The Gulfstream slid down the glide slope in the early evening darkness. The western horizon still bore the angry red scar of the desert sun. Across the aisle, soft snores came from one of the seats that reclined to horizontal. Lang had offered Jacob the use of the single small bedroom suite on board the aircraft, but he had protested that flying in such luxury was too unique an experience to be so wasted.
An hour out of Marseille, he was sound asleep.
In view of the police's interest in him, Lang had insisted on driving from London to Dover, then through the Channel to Paris, where they met the foundation's jet at a fixed base operator at Charles de Gaulle rather than risk the scrutiny of security in the main terminal.
Israel was another matter.
Without Jacob, no matter whom Lang's passport declared him to be nor how large the private jet on which he arrived, he would be subjected to identification by thumbprint, facial recognition scanning, and other procedures of which he would be unaware. The Couch identity on his passport was backed up by the best false information the Agency could provide when it had been issued two years ago.
Israeli security rarely stopped at the obvious, though. Lang knew that even the most cursory investigation of worldwide computer records would show that, for at least twenty-four months, Joel Couch of Macon, Georgia, had used none of his credit cards, made no bank deposits, and incurred no utility bills. Without the intercession of Jacob's Mossad friends, facial identity and fingerprints alone would match those of a man in whom the Vienna police had an interest.
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
