Hunter Killer

big European Airbus-Boeing. Then we located him again at the French Foreign Legion training base at Aubagne, just east of Marseille. Remember, we want Kerman just as badly as you do.”

“And then?”

“We sent two of our best agents in.”

“Assassins?”

“Agents, with a…well…flexible agenda.”

“And what happened?”

“They were both killed stone dead in some kind of a shootout. But of course no one knew who they were. The French police announced it was a gangland killing, involving drugs, tried to blame one of the dead waiters.

“We never even knew what was going on till we saw police pictures of two dead men being carried out of the restaurant. They were never even released, far less published, but one of our field officers saw them, and instantly identified one of the bodies on the stretcher, throat cut wide open.”

“Christ!” said Morgan. “What about the other agent?”

“Also dead. Two bullets to the back of the head, fired from a semi-automatic Browning high-power pistol… nine millimeter. The SAS has used them for years, but not many other modern forces do.”

“None of this was in the newspapers, right?”

“Certainly not. For some reason the police, or the French government, someone, wanted this thing played right down. We of course were not anxious to have the names of our dead agents plastered all over the place. And they carried no identification with them. We just decided to let it ride. And the French kept it quiet for us. The bodies apparently vanished. And no one ever heard anything more. But it was Kerman we were after. And Kerman, I believe, whose finger was on the trigger of his trusty Browning service revolver.”

“You think he cut the other agent’s throat?”

“No. That must have been his buddy, whoever that was.”

“Jesus. Sounds like another SAS man,” said Morgan.

“Doesn’t it? But Hereford has reported no one else missing. Whoever it was, it was a very professional response. We have never before lost agents, armed to the teeth with AK-47s, to a couple of amateurs having dinner, armed only with a sheath knife and an old-fashioned pistol.”

“You think Kerman’s still in France?”

“I don’t know. But he left from Damascus. That’s where we logged on to him. But our people did not see him return. He could be anywhere.”

General Gavron could not of course have known about the devious way General Rashood made his escape from France — the long car journey back to Paris; the first-class seats onboard a regular, crowded Air France flight to Syria; the French Secret Service steering the Hamas assault chief through security, complete with his Browning 9 mm; the two accompanying bodyguards from the First Marine Parachute Regiment, all three wearing traditional Arab dress. It all looked too normal in Damascus Airport, way too normal to attract the attention of Daniel Mostel.

“Kerman,” said Morgan. “He’s like the goddamned Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“Well, the trail’s gone cold,” replied the Israeli General.

“So we’re back where we started,” said Morgan. “He might be in Syria. But it could be Jordan, or Iran, or Libya. Or even Cairo. And now France.”

“Yes. But that was a damn funny business in Marseille, Arnie,” said the General. “I mean, what’s Kerman doing in France in the first place? And what’s he doing in Special Forces aircraft? Landing at a Foreign Legion base? And who was he dining with? And how come he has the obvious protection of the French police, not to mention the French Government?

“That restaurant was the scene of a colossal crime. And the police refused to release any information whatsoever. A lot of people were hurt, some killed, but they would not even name the dead. I mean my agents.”

Admiral Morgan smiled. General Gavron still regarded himself as the head of the Mossad, even though he retired from that position several months before. But I guess, thought Arnold, when you’ve fought a tank battle alongside Bren Adan in the Sinai, been wounded, decorated for valor, and literally laid down your life for Israel, you’re apt to take even its minor problems very personally.

He looked into the wide, tanned, open face of the Israeli. And he probed into those bright blue eyes for a sign of disquiet. And he found it. David Gavron was bitterly unhappy that one of Israel’s greatest enemies might be planning another operation.

Morgan could see almost straight through the former Israeli battle commander, as if the unacceptable thought were reflected in those piercing eyes…What the hell was Kerman doing in France, smuggled in, and probably out again, all with government protection?

The following morning, Lt. Commander Ramshawe’s phone rang before 0800. He recognized the voice instantly. “Morning, sir,” he greeted the former director of the National Security Agency.

“Jimmy,” said Admiral Morgan. “Do you remember a couple of months ago reading anything at all about a gang shooting, something to do with drugs, in Marseille?”

“No, sir. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It was pretty big. Like fifteen injured and maybe six dead in a real bloodbath in some restaurant near the waterfront.”

“Still doesn’t ring a bell, sir. But I’ll get right on it, check it out. Do you have a more precise date?”

“It was in the last week of August. Restaurant called L’Union. Police apparently wanted it kept quiet. They released very little. But the Mossad lost two agents, both killed in the fight. One of them had his throat cut. They reckon the other one was shot by Major Ray Kerman.”

“Jeez,” said Jimmy Ramshawe. “Here he comes again.”

“Precisely my thoughts. See what you can dig up. You and Jane want to come over for dinner later? We’d be glad to see you. And we’re getting to the end of the grilling season. How about some New York sirloin steaks? Keep your strength up.”

“Sounds great, sir. We’ll be there. Second dogwatch. Three bells, right?”

“Perfect. 1930. See you then, kid.”

Jimmy Ramshawe had absolutely no idea why, but whenever the Big Man came on the line, a ripple of excitement shot right through him. The unerring instinct of Admiral Morgan for real trouble was infectious. And so far as the young Lt. Commander could remember, the Admiral had never been wrong.

And another thing. What was it with this Marseille bullshit? He’d never even thought about the place for years on end. And now he’d heard it big time, twice, in twenty-four hours. The bloody frogs are up to something, he surmised. The ol’ Admiral doesn’t come in with requests unless something’s afoot.

But the trouble with France was, he couldn’t really read the language. What he needed was an English- speaking newspaper that might carry the story. He keyed into the Internet and whistled up the foreign pages of the London Daily Telegraph.

Result: one big fat zero. Not a bloody line about a mass murder. Bloody oath, they’re getting slack over there.

James Ramshawe was born in America, but both his parents were Australian, and he still spoke with the pronounced accent of New South Wales. His fiancee, Jane Peacock, was the daughter of the Australian Ambassador in Washington. Both of them loved to have a go at the Brits for being incompetent and inept. And an unreported mass murder in the next-door country would do Jimmy fine for a few hours.

Bloody pom journalists. Wouldn’t know a truly significant story if it bit ’em in the ass.

He actually knew that was not true. But it amused him to say it, even under his breath. Anyway, beaten by the system, he sent for a translator and keyed his Internet connection into the news pages of Le Figaro, last week in August.

The big French national daily was better than the Telegraph, but not by much. It reported a serious shoot-out at L’Union restaurant in Marseille, a French city historically known for its connection to crime, drugs, smuggling, and other nefarious activities. The newspaper claimed that fifteen people had been