me. I’ll make you rich. Eh?’
‘How far are we from the old city?’ Zhilev asked.
The driver was miffed at being ignored. ‘Five minutes,’ he said. He then pulled a bottle of vodka from under his seat, unscrewed the top, took a swig and offered it to Zhilev.
‘You want?’
‘No,’ Zhilev said.
The driver shrugged, screwed the top back on and replaced it under his seat. ‘Which gate you want?’
‘What?’ Zhilev asked.
‘Which gate? I can’t drive into the old city. You must walk. Which gate? There are eight.’
‘Any will do.’
‘Where you staying? You need a hotel? I know a good hotel. Cheap.’
Zhilev could only imagine what this man’s hotel recommendations would be like. ‘No, thanks,’ he mumbled.
The driver shrugged as they pulled to a stop at a set of traffic lights and he pulled his bottle from under the seat and took another swig.
Zhilev had not thought about staying in a hotel, but now that the driver had mentioned it, it sounded like a sensible idea. There was no rush. He had originally planned to plant the bomb as soon as he arrived, but there were several good reasons why a delay of one day made sense. He wanted to make a final check of the device to ensure he had bypassed the protection protocols, and run through another arming rehearsal. He would need complete privacy for that. There was also the possibility that something might prevent him from carrying out his plan right away and he would need a base. On top of all of that, the thought of a hot bath and spending the night in a comfortable bed with clean sheets was very appealing.
‘I want a good hotel,’ Zhilev announced.
‘Good? How good?’
‘The best.’
‘The best?’ the driver said with a smirk. He had already begun to smell Zhilev and was wondering if the man could pay his taxi fare. He looked in his rear-view mirror and this time Zhilev was looking him in the eye. The driver’s smirk melted as he saw something in the big Latvian’s eyes that was clearly a warning.
‘What kind of hotel you want?’ the driver asked. ‘Israeli or Palestinian?’
Zhilev considered the question. He cared for neither in particular, but the Palestinian was closest to his enemy and the thought of bedding down amongst them before he ended their lives appealed to him. ‘Is there a good Palestinian hotel?’
‘We are coming to it,’ the driver said. ‘And it’s just a five-minute walk to the old city.’
They approached a roundabout, took the first exit and a few yards up a slight hill the driver pulled the car into the kerb and stopped. Zhilev looked out of the window at a bronze plaque on a wall by an entrance that advertised the American Colony.
‘It’s called American Colony but it’s Palestinian,’ the driver said. ‘Expensive.’
Zhilev opened the door.
‘Thirty shekels,’ the driver said, holding out his hand and putting on his mean expression just in case Zhilev thought of running.
Zhilev pulled a US five-dollar bill from his pocket and put it in the driver’s hand.
‘That’s not enough,’ the driver said.
‘It’s enough,’ Zhilev said as he climbed out of the vehicle with his bag and closed the door.
The driver rolled down his window and called out an expletive as he drove away. Zhilev ignored him as he walked to the entrance and stopped to look inside the grounds, the hotel being mostly hidden by trees and groomed vegetation. It was inviting and he could already feel himself soaking in the hot bath. He looked down at his feet, his trousers and the sleeves of his shirt. They were grubby and worn. If he was going to clean up, he should not do it by halves. Some new clothes were in order, the question was, should he buy them now before he entered the hotel, or after, when he was refreshed. The obvious answer was to have something clean to put on after his bath.
He looked up and down the street.There were no shops in the immediate area, but further up the hill, at the top of the road, there were what appeared to be several stores. Perhaps others were around the corner.
He shouldered his bag and walked up the hill.
As Zhilev reached the top of the hill and the first of the shops, a car turned into the road at the bottom, past the spot where he had alighted from the taxi and drove in through the old stone entrance of the hotel. It slowly navigated a sharp turn around an ellipse of dense foliage that led into a tight-fitting portico where it stopped outside the main doors of a three-storey stone colonial building.Tastefully overgrown creepers and huge-leaved plants hugged the pillars, portico and walls of the building and much of the entrance and driveway were in the shadow of a variety of tall trees.The hotel, in exceptional condition, was a marriage of old European walls and Middle Eastern windows.
A bellhop stepped through a pair of modern heavy glass doors set behind what appeared to be the original oak doors and opened the rear passenger door where Stratton and Gabriel sat together.
‘This is where the East meets the West,’ Raz said.
Stratton glanced inside the lobby at its highly polished stone floors covered in rich Persian carpets and bedecked in a tasteful collection of Eastern and antique European furniture. It looked very chic and very expensive.
‘You will be comfortable here,’ Raz said. ‘It’s more popular among Europeans and Americans than other hotels. Just be careful what you say or where you say it. Nearly everyone here is either a spy or a member of the media. It’s Palestinian and one of the best hotels in the city . . . and the most expensive. I know how cheap your English bosses are,’ he smiled. ‘You can tell them you had no choice since I would not take you anywhere else.’
Stratton wondered if there was a meaning behind the gesture, and why he had not taken them to an Israeli hotel.
Gabriel climbed out of the car with his bag and Raz watched him walk into the hotel. His eyes then fell on Stratton.
‘Your friend. Is he okay? He doesn’t look well.’
‘He just needs some rest.’
‘If he needs a doctor, let me know. I don’t want anything happening to my guests.’
As Stratton opened his door, Raz stopped him. ‘I’m going back to my office,’ he said. ‘When would you like to give your brief?’
Stratton paused, trying to decide how best to stall him. Of course they would expect a brief but no one said anything about it to Stratton on the aircraft. Sumners would have prepared one. He probably deliberately omitted to mention it after Stratton cut him off. He wondered what else the petulant bastard had forgotten to give him.
‘Can I get back to you tomorrow on that? Just between us, we’re a little ahead of ourselves. I need to catch up on the paperwork.’
Raz smiled insincerely, his suspicions increasing that these people were playing some kind of game with him. He was not concerned though. He was used to it. The CIA were always coming into town on their fact-finding tours and then secretly, or so they thought, meeting with Hamas and other terrorist groups, negotiating behind the Israelis’ backs. The Americans’ partners, the British, usually preferred more clandestine methods, disguising themselves as members of NGOs, non-governmental organisations such as the Red Cross and UN, or as human rights observers. But they were on Raz’s turf and therefore vulnerable. Raz had his own extensive spy network that included the NGOs, hotels, media organisations such as the BBC and CNN, and, of course, the various Palestinian terrorist organisations. He thought about inviting Stratton to dinner as was customary when a fellow intelligence operative came to town, but decided against it. He could detect a level of tension in the two men, which suggested their concerns were more immediate than long term. It would be prudent to give them as much room as they wanted and set up a surveillance team right away.
‘Fine,’ Raz said. ‘Why don’t you get settled and I’ll come by in the morning.’
‘Sounds good,’ Stratton said, and climbed out of the car.
Raz and his driver watched Stratton walk into the hotel. The two men shared a look, then, on Raz’s nod, the driver pulled away and they left the grounds.
