The large, shabby vehicle swerved, cutting off Ben-Ami's words. The man from the Mossad had reacted so joltingly to the name that he nearly drove off the road. 'Evan Kendrick?' he said, steadying the wheel, his eyes wide in astonishment.
'Yes.'
'The Kendrick Group!'
'The what?' asked Yaakov, watching the driver's face.
'The company he ran over here.'
'His dossier is being flown over from Washington tonight,' said Ben-Ami. 'We'll have it by morning.'
'You don't need it!' cried the Mossad agent. 'We've got a file on him as thick as Moses' tablets. We've also got Emmanuel Weingrass—whom we frequently wish we did not have!'
'You're too swift for me.'
'Not now, Ben-Ami. It would take several hours and a great deal of wine—damn Weingrass; he made me say that!'
'Would you be clearer, please?'
'Briefer, my friend, not necessarily clearer. If Kendrick is back, he is on to something and he's here for a four-year-old score—an explosion that took the lives of seventy-odd men, women and children. They were his family. You'd have to know him to understand that.'
'You knew him?' asked Ben-Ami, leaning forward. 'You know him?'
'Not well, but enough to understand. The one who knew him best—father-figure, drinking companion, confessor, counsellor, genius, best friend—was Emmanuel Weingrass.'
'The man you obviously disapprove of,' interjected Yaakov, his eyes still on the driver's face.
'Disapprove wholeheartedly,' agreed the Israeli intelligence officer. 'But he's not totally without value. I wish he were but he isn't.'
'Value to the Mossad?' asked Ben-Ami.
It was as if the agent at the wheel felt a sudden rush of embarrassment. He lowered his voice in reply. 'We've used him in Paris,' he said, swallowing. 'He moves in odd circles, has contact with fringe people. Actually—God, I hate to admit it—he's been somewhat effective. Through him we tracked down the terrorists who bombed the kosher restaurant on the rue du Bac. We resolved the problem ourselves, but some damn fool allowed him to be in on the kill. Stupid, stupid! And to his credit,' added the driver grudgingly, gripping the wheel firmly, 'he called us in Tel Aviv with information that aborted five other such incidents.'
'He saved many lives,' said Yaakov. 'Jewish lives. And yet you disapprove of him?'
'You don't know him! You see, no one pays much attention to a seventy-nine-year-old bon-vivant, a boulevardier who struts down the Avenue Montaigne with one, if not two, Parisienne “models” whom he's outfitted in the St Honore with the funds he received from the Kendrick Group.'
'Why does that detract from his value?' asked Ben-Ami.
'He bills us for dinners at La Tour d'Argent! Three thousand, four thousand shekels! How can we refuse? He does deliver and he was a witness at a particularly violent event where we took matters into our own hands. A fact he now and then reminds us of if the payments are late.'
'I'd say he's entitled,' said Ben-Ami, nodding his head. 'He's an agent of the Mossad in a foreign country and must maintain his cover.'
'Caught, strangled, our testicles in a vice,' whispered the driver softly to himself. 'And the worst is yet to come.'
'I beg your pardon?' said Yaakov.
'If anyone can find Evan Kendrick in Oman, it's Emmanuel Weingrass. When we get to Masqat, to our headquarters, I'll make a call to Paris. Damn!'
'Je regretted said the switchboard operator at the Pont Royal Hotel in Paris. 'But Monsieur Weingrass is away for a few days. However, he has left a telephone number in Monte Carlo—’
'Je suis desolee,' said the operator at the L'Hermitage
