After this, his son Benjamin, Danny Kollek’s father, grew up in Israel, and became a successful retailer of electronic goods in Haifa. Teitelbaum had met him once, not long after young Danny – fresh from university, having served his mandatory years in the army – had been recruited into Mossad. In such a small society, the nature of Danny’s job was hardly secret; certainly Danny’s father knew – he told Teitelbaum it was the proudest day of his life when Danny joined Mossad. Because his son would be defending the imperilled state, home of the Jews? Not at all, replied Benjamin. Because his son would now be in a position to avenge his grandfather’s death.
When Teitelbaum had finished, Miles sat for a moment in silence. Then he said quietly, ‘I wish we’d known about this sooner.’
He said this more in sorrow than in anger, but Teitelbaum’s eyes flared. ‘I wish you’d told us some things as well. I think you’ve known far more about Danny Kollek than you’re letting on.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Miles, sensing they were heading into dangerous territory. The one thing Tyrus Oakes’s cable had stressed was that he must avoid explicitly admitting that Kollek had been run by Andy Bokus.
‘Chance? Coincidence? I don’t believe in them. Maybe it is a drawback of belonging to our mutual profession. But that’s how I am.’ He was looking at Miles with hostile eyes. ‘So the idea that you and British intelligence have homed in on Danny Kollek through observation of two men said to be a danger to Syria, strikes me, frankly, as utterly preposterous.’
Miles held his breath, not daring to speak. Teitelbaum gave him a small, sardonic smile, which added to Miles’s tension. Then the Israeli said, ‘I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, Mr Brookhaven. And if you don’t, then I think you’ll find your head of station Mr Bokus can illuminate you.’
You knew about Kollek, thought Miles, and a fresh wave of agitation swept across him. He had been struggling to keep secret something Teitelbaum had known about for a lot longer than Miles.
Teitelbaum gave a short squawking laugh, but it was without malice. ‘You look like a rabbit caught in a tractor’s headlights. But cheer up, Mr Brookhaven; I am not feeling so clever myself.’
‘Why is that?’ Miles said hopefully.
‘Because if Mr Andy Bokus feels he’s been taken for a ride, I have to admit I feel precisely the same way. He thought he was running Danny Kollek; I thought Danny Kollek was running him.’
‘What?’ Miles was astonished. So Mossad
Looking equally perturbed himself, Teitelbaum gazed into his empty cup, as if hoping to find something there to soothe his troubles. Sitting back, he clasped his hands and set them on his ample stomach. He said ruefully, ‘But I see now that I have been as big a fool as – if I may say so -your own head of London station.’
‘Why?’
Teitelbaum sighed rabbinically. Miles had the sudden sense that this man had seen more aspects of the human comedy than he ever would. The Israeli said, ‘Partly because of the things you have told me. But for the clincher, as I think you Americans like to say, you’d have to ask Danny Kollek.’
‘Happily,’ said Miles eagerly. ‘Can we call him in?’
‘That won’t be possible.’
Miles’s spirits sank. Had he misgauged the conversation? He had been starting to think Teitelbaum was on his side. Then he noticed the expression on the older man’s face: he seemed to be enjoying some secret.
Teitelbaum said, ‘I am not being difficult, Mr Brookhaven. You’re more than welcome to talk to Kollek – if you can find him. We certainly can’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply that Danny Kollek has disappeared.’ He stared at Miles, all amusement gone. ‘It looks as if we have a rogue agent.’ Just then there was a large bang across the plaza, and looking up Miles saw the jeweller looking triumphant, swinging the unlocked grill against the wall.
As Liz, in her office in London, finished reading Miles’s report, she saw how they had all been fooled. Duped by false attachments, phoney allegiances, clever manipulation of national and Agency rivalries. All carried out and encouraged by one man. Who said the age of the Individual was over? She reached for her mug of tea. It was stone-cold.
FORTY-EIGHT
The Israeli Embassy was a white stucco mansion at the High Street Kensington end of Kensington Palace Gardens, barely a stone’s throw from the Underground. It took Liz fifteen minutes to get inside. She was asked for identification twice, was hand-searched and scanned, passed through a metal detector arch, had her handbag examined inside and out and only after all that was she allowed into a waiting room.
When she finally reached a room containing Ari Block, Mossad station head in London, it was both a surprise and a relief to find that he was a gentle-looking little man, with a soft voice and mournful eyes.
They sat down on each side of a small, square table. Liz was under no illusion that this was his office. It was clearly a meeting room set aside for visitors who did not qualify to be allowed into the Mossad station proper. Ari Block was not a man to indulge in social chit-chat. His voice had a sibilant, almost whispering quality as he said, ‘My colleagues in Tel Aviv have been in touch, so I know why you’re here.’ A pained look came over his gentle face. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘I don’t know where Danny Kollek is.’
‘Well, that means that no one does,’ said Liz. ‘But we do need to find him, for everyone’s sake. I’m sure you will have heard from Israel that we have good reason to suspect that he may be planning some disruption of the Gleneagles conference. We don’t know what, but at the worst it could be something very nasty indeed.’
Ari Block nodded and said, ‘I have been instructed to be very frank with you, Miss Carlyle, but I have to tell you that I do not know Kollek well. He is nominally on my staff and he communicates with me when he sees fit, which I have to tell you is not very often. But unusually, his reporting line is directly back to Tel Aviv. It is not an arrangement I like or approve of. And from what I understand, it appears to have turned out to be disastrous.’
‘That arrangement enabled him to play his cards very close to his chest?’
‘Yes. Though he gets on well enough with the other members of my team, he does not share information with them and he is not close to anyone. He can be very charming – when he wants to – but there is also something reserved about the man. A sort of coldness, even. To be perfectly honest with you, though I do not like having a member of my team who does not report to me, in one way it is a relief that I don’t have responsibility for him.’
Liz said, ‘What we’re particularly concerned about is the peace conference next week. Does he have any involvement with the arrangements for your delegation?’
Block looked at her and his face flushed with anxiety. ‘Involvement? He most certainly does. On behalf of the embassy, he is in charge of all the planning for our delegation and its programme.’
Liz found her jaw tensing involuntarily. ‘Has he been up to Gleneagles, then?’
‘Yes. Last week.’
‘Did he go alone?’
‘No. One of the embassy staff and one of my staff went with him. Wait a minute,’ Block said, ‘and I’ll try and get hold off them.’ He picked up a phone on the table and spoke urgently in Hebrew.
While they waited, Liz took the opportunity to ask more about Kollek. ‘Does he socialise with any other members of the station or the embassy?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘In East Dulwich.’ Block had already sent two men to search his flat, but they had found nothing incriminating, and no sign of Kollek.
There was a knock on the door. A woman came in, big-boned, medium height, a little older than Liz, with a tired, haggard face. She looked nervous as she introduced herself as Naomi Goldstein. Without any explanation, Ari Block told her that they wanted to hear about her visit to Gleneagles. She looked puzzled, but asked no questions and started on a detailed minute-by-minute account of the two days she had spent there.
