Dead Line

‘Well, not really. Most of those I know are Mossad. They came to talk to me about my husband, Saul – ex- husband I should say – almost as soon as I arrived in Tel Aviv. I expect Sophie told you. Sophie thinks Danny may be Mossad too,’ added Hannah disarmingly.

‘Did he tell you he was?’

‘No, and I don’t believe it. He’s far too nice and we met quite by chance.’

Liz said nothing but she was thinking, I bet that was no chance meeting. She’d checked before she came out and Kollek was at the embassy all right, and he wasn’t on the list Mossad provided of their London-based officers. But what Hannah had described was a classic intelligence officer’s pick-up. He’s probably been asked to keep a discreet eye on her while she’s in London, she thought.

Hannah went on, ‘I’ve told them I don’t want to talk to them anymore.’ She lowered her voice. Why? thought Liz. There was no one to overhear.

‘Saul and I split up, you know. He did business throughout the Middle East, probably still does; computer systems. I couldn’t help them much because I didn’t understand the detail, but they told me that though the systems were innocent enough by themselves, they were capable of helping a country develop sophisticated counter-radar weapons.’

‘Did he deal with the enemies of Israel?’

Hannah shrugged and, looking at Sophie who was now back in the kitchen and seemed preoccupied with her daube, she said, ‘Saul wasn’t very choosy about his customers. He was only interested in making money.’

Liz nodded sympathetically. ‘Is that what Danny Kollek talks to you about?’

Hannah gave a sudden laugh. ‘Goodness, no. Danny’s only interested in music. Even more than in me,’ she added loudly enough for Sophie to hear. ‘Seriously, he’s just a friend. We have lunch, we go to a concert – there’s nothing professional about it at all. If anything, he’s sympathetic to the movement.’

‘The movement?’

‘The peace movement. I got involved almost as soon as I arrived in Israel. Everyone seems to think Israel is full of right-wing hawks, determined to keep the occupied territories. But it’s not that way at all. There’s plenty of dissent there. In fact, I’d say most intelligent Israelis are adamantly opposed to government policy. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t think a negotiated settlement is the only way forward. The Likud people are just nuts.’

‘And your friend Danny thinks that way, too.’

‘Absolutely. But of course his hands are tied. That’s one of the drawbacks, he says, of being at the embassy. He’s not allowed to have an opinion, really. But I can tell he’s on our side.’

‘I see,’ said Liz as politely as she could, reluctant to say that this didn’t seem a very professional way for a diplomat to behave. Could this apparently switched-on woman be so easily taken for a ride?

At this interesting point in the conversation Sophie intervened. ‘Here we go,’ she called from the kitchen, putting a large cast-iron casserole on the table. ‘All I can say, Hannah, is thank heavens you’re not kosher. I had to brown the beef in bacon fat.’

Thinking afterwards about her conversation with Hannah Gold on Sophie’s terrace, Liz concluded that Sophie had been perfectly right about Danny Kollek. To the professional eye, too many things didn’t fit, quite apart from the implausibility of the whole relationship. Charles Wetherby agreed. ‘He must be Mossad,’ he said. ‘But you say he’s not on the list – he’s undeclared to us?’

‘Well, it’s not the first time the Israelis haven’t played by the rules. Presumably his head office have asked him to keep an eye on Mrs Gold while she’s here. But there’s not enough there so far for us to complain.’

Charles looked at her. ‘What’s the matter? What are you thinking? Is this important?’

‘I’m just worried about this peace conference. There’s too much noise around it. Too many odd leads that don’t seem to take us anywhere. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to keep in touch with Sophie Margolis.’

‘Yes,’ said Charles, turning back to the papers on his desk. ‘Do. And keep me informed.’

TWENTY

Dear Peggy, thought Liz, as the younger woman entered her office clutching a thick stack of notes. She has been busy. Liz motioned her to take a seat.

‘All well with you?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Tim still cooking up a storm?’

Peggy turned a light shade of pink, then sighed. ‘We’re onto Jamie Oliver now.’

Liz laughed, then turned to business. ‘So what have you got?’

‘I’ve been looking some more into Sami Veshara, our Lebanese food importer. He leads quite a life. There’s a girlfriend in Paris, so he’s made a couple of trips there recently. And he’s been to Lebanon three times in the last six months – nothing unusual there. But on the last occasion he flew home via Amsterdam.’

‘Is that suspicious? Maybe he couldn’t get a direct flight.’

Peggy shook her head. ‘I checked that. There were plenty of seats that day. He went to Amsterdam for a reason.’

‘And what do we think that was?’

‘It’s more what Customs and Excise think. I told you about these shipments Veshara’s been making by boat. The Excise people now think they are a cover for something else. Some other boats that don’t come into Harwich; Harrison, the officer I spoke to, has been investigating them and he thinks they drop anchor in a deserted spot further down the coast, then offload the cargo there.’

‘What does he think they’re offloading?’

‘He doesn’t know for sure, but Amsterdam suggests the obvious. Harrison’s planning to intercept one of them next time they sail. They’ve been coming out of Ostend, and he’s liaising with the port authorities there.’

‘Any idea when the next one’s going to be?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ Peggy consulted a printed email she had on her lap. ‘Tomorrow night, they think.’

Liz thought for a moment. It might prove a wild-goose chase, but right now it was the only solid lead they had.

Liz was beginning to feel sick. It was high tide in the little cove, ten miles south of Harwich on the Essex coast, and though the curving bend of this stretch of shoreline made for a natural harbour, it was still fully exposed to the North Sea. It wasn’t rough but the slow swells lifting and lowering The Clacton, the little Customs cutter, seemed to have a worse effect on her stomach even than the violence of a storm.

‘Should be any minute now,’ said Harrison to Liz, who was the only other person on deck, besides the helmsman. Harrison’s team of half a dozen were below, drinking tea, immune to seasickness. The helmsman stiffened, though he kept the boat idling gently in the curve of the little bay, under the shadow of the cliff face that loomed directly above them. A crescent moon darted in and out of the patchy clouds that spread across the sky like fat puffballs.

Liz had driven up in the afternoon to Harwich, where she’d met Harrison and been introduced to his men. She had been kitted out with a yellow uniform parka, which was warm and cosy – and about three sizes too big. The odd look had come her way during Harrison’s briefing, but no one had asked her why she was there; perhaps they’d been told beforehand not to ask questions, or maybe they were used to unexplained visitors. Harrison himself was a model of discretion, making polite small talk over sandwiches, then excusing himself to get ready. Liz killed the wait before they embarked by reading dog-eared copies of Hello and the Sun, which were lying around in the canteen.

The helmsman spoke. ‘There’s a boat over there, sir,’ he said, pointing out towards the North Sea. ‘Coming this way.’

Liz looked seaward and saw a tiny light, like an illuminated pin bobbing against the horizon. The pin grew larger, and Harrison took two steps and banged loudly on the hatch door. A minute later it opened, and the six Customs men came up the stairs quickly. Liz noticed that two of them were armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 carbines.