the targets. That’s why I’m sure Kollek didn’t have anything to do with them, or he would have listed them as contacts he was running.’
No one spoke. Liz saw Tyrus Oakes shift his gaze downwards to study his tie – another reversed stripes item. Bokus looked around him with a mystified expression. ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded.
Liz glanced at Fane, wondering if she should say what they were all thinking. Tyrus Oakes’s continued inspection of his tie spoke volumes.
At last Fane said coolly, ‘Maybe Kollek didn’t want you to know.’
Liz thought for a moment Bokus would explode. His cheeks turned puce and he began to shake his head. ‘No way,’ he said emphatically. ‘Kollek was straight; he wouldn’t have dared hold back on me. There was too much at stake for him. If his colleagues in Mossad even got a whiff that he was talking to us, his career wouldn’t have been worth five cents. He’d have gone to prison – think of what happened to Vanunu.’
The scientist who, having spilled the beans to a British newspaper about Israel’s nuclear capability, was lured to Italy in a classic ‘honey trap’, then kidnapped Eichmann-like and brought back to Israel, where he was tried and sentenced, and then spent eighteen years in solitary confinement.
‘Listen,’ Bokus added rudely, pointing an accusatory finger at Liz, ‘I’ve run more assets than you’ve had breakfasts. I know when an asset’s holding back, and this guy wasn’t.’
‘Where is he now then?’ asked Liz.
‘He said he was going to Israel. That must be where he is now. I know he wasn’t going to be in the country during the peace conference. If that’s what you’re driving at.’
Liz spoke with deliberate softness. ‘It seems to me Kollek hasn’t always told you the truth about his whereabouts.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Bokus shot back.
‘When we met in Thames House, you told me Kollek was away, and had been for a couple of weeks. But he wasn’t – he has been cultivating a woman named Hannah Gold here in London. Kollek chatted her up at the theatre on a day you said he was in Israel.’
‘For Christ’s sakes,’ Bokus exclaimed, exasperated. ‘I’m not his goddamned nanny. I don’t keep daily tabs on him.’
‘We need to know where he is now.’ Liz felt if she weren’t careful her own irritation would match his. That would be a mistake. So she said as calmly as she could, ‘Since you can’t tell us, I think we only have one option.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We need to speak to Mossad.’
‘No!’ Bokus shouted.
She turned to Oakes. ‘We promised not to go down this route, but I can’t see any other choice. That’s why we’re here. We believe Kollek may present an imminent danger of some kind. I don’t know exactly what yet.’
Fane intervened now. He said placatingly, ‘Obviously, Ty, if we’re wrong about this, then we’ll apologise. But I’m afraid I support Elizabeth here on this. We have to be sure.’
‘But I
Liz ignored him and spoke directly to Oakes. It was hard to read what he was thinking. ‘From our point of view, two people who were supposed to be a threat to Syria and the peace conference had been working for Mossad, and one at least had been run by Kollek. I’m sure that’s true -I saw Kollek myself at Marcham’s house. And now Marcham’s dead in suspicious circumstances. We don’t know what any of that means, but we can’t afford to ignore it. And given that the conference is now so close, the whole thing has become desperately urgent.’
Bokus was looking at Oakes for support, but to Liz’s relief Oakes nodded, to show he accepted the argument. Bokus grew more agitated. ‘Ty, we can’t have this. You want the British to tell Mossad we were running one of their officers? Think of the damage that will do. Kollek
‘Steady on,’ said Fane equably. He was only looking at Oakes now. Liz realised Bokus had been relegated to observer status; Oakes was going to be the arbiter.
Fane continued, ‘That’s the bad news. But we’d be very happy for you to make the approach to the Israelis. Mossad are much more likely to level with you chaps than with us. And in that way, you can control how much Mossad learns about your dealings with Kollek. All we’re looking for is assurance that Mossad has Kollek under control, that they know where he is, and that they can vouch to us that he’s in no position to do any damage to Gleneagles.’
Bokus was looking intently at Tyrus Oakes. But Oakes wasn’t looking at him; he was looking straight back at Fane.
‘OK, Geoffrey. I can see you’re right.’ Bokus shook his head in disgust.
Liz said, ‘Miles Brookhaven is in Damascus already, and he knows as much as the rest of us about the situation. Could he do it?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Bokus, looking despairingly at Oakes.
But there was no help coming from that quarter. ‘That makes sense,’ Oakes said. He looked at Bokus, and this time there was a hint of anger in his eyes. ‘Who else am I going to send, Andy? I can’t very well send you to talk with the boys in Tel Aviv, now can I? Not when you’re still insisting that Kollek’s one of the good guys.’
FORTY-SIX
Time was running out. There were only five days left before the conference began, and Liz was getting nowhere in finding Kollek.
Then, just as she’d collected her afternoon mug of tea, onto her desk came Miles’s report from Tel Aviv, marked URGENT. Twenty minutes later she was still reading, while her tea sat untouched.
At Teitelbaum’s suggestion, they had met, not at the Mossad offices, but in a cafe on the edge of a small plaza in Tel Aviv.
Its equivalent in Damascus, thought Miles, who had only arrived the night before from Syria, would have been a dark hovel, cramped, filthy, foetid – and full of charm. This cafe was clean and neat, with metal tables and aluminium chairs, and utterly impersonal.
He’d had drinks the night before with Edmund White-house, the MI6 station head in Damascus, and helped by his description, Miles spotted the Israeli at once. Teitelbaum was sitting at an outside table, under the edge of the cafe’s awning, half in and half out of the sun. He wore a short-sleeved khaki shirt, open at the throat – the informal uniform of Israelis from generals to businessmen – and he was smoking a small brown cheroot and talking into a mobile phone. Looking at Teitelbaum, sitting there with his powerful forearms propped on the table, his bald head gleaming in the bright morning sun, Miles thought he was the spitting image of Nikita Khrushchev.
Teitelbaum put his phone in his pocket and stood up as Miles approached the table. They shook hands and Miles felt the man’s hand squeeze his with momentary force, then just as quickly relax. See, the gesture seemed to say, I could crush you if I wanted to.
Miles ordered an espresso from the waiter, then said, ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
Teitelbaum waved a dismissive hand. Then he asked, ‘You have flown from Washington?’
‘No. I’ve come from Damascus.’ He wasn’t going to lie; the old fox knew perfectly well where he’d come from.
Teitelbaum nodded. ‘Ah, our neighbours.’ He held up one arm, and Miles could see a long sliver of pink scar tissue, running in a faint crescent beneath the dark curly hair of his forearm. ‘I have always wanted to see the country that gave this to me. My relic of the Six Day War.’ He looked without emotion at Miles. ‘Now tell me how I can help you and Mr Tyrus Oakes.’
Across the square a man came out of the doorway of a jeweller’s shop. He was opening up, and bent down to unlock the steel cage-like grille that protected his window display. Miles took a deep breath and said, ‘Almost two months ago we received news of a potential threat to the peace conference that starts next week in Scotland. We were told that two individuals in the UK were working to undermine the Syrians’ participation in the conference.’
Miles couldn’t tell how much of this was news to Teitelbaum, but at least he was listening carefully. Miles went
