Behind God's Back

PROLOGUE

After continuing for a month, Operation Jaffa joined that echelon of rare Security Police operations about which exaggerated tales would have been told to grandchildren, had it only been allowed. One could predict the same sort of legendary glow for Jaffa as the battles of the eastern front held for veterans of World War II, or the round-the-clock monitoring of the Soviet embassy (known as Hustler duty) held for the old-timers from the Security Police.

Three weeks into the operation, some investigator on a five-cup coffee high invented a new name for it in the quiet hours of the night. And like a bad case of athlete’s foot, it immediately spread into common use. On paper the operation continued to be known as Jaffa, but in the field it had a less dignified appellation: Operation Haemorrhoid.

The nickname was like a shortcut across a lawn. Using it was forbidden, but prohibitions and interdictions proved completely ineffective at preventing trespassers. In such cases, it was wisest to give up or build an impassably high fence.

The appropriateness of the name was revealed the first time you spent a few hours without a break on the hard-edged, unpadded kitchen chair.

The two-room flat with a kitchenette had been rented solely for Operation Jaffa. One room was furnished with a folding bed and two stools; the other, which looked out onto the street, contained a table covered in coffee-cup rings, as well as the aforementioned kitchen chair and a couple of its siblings. The chair had been set up in front of the window. A tripod stood next to it, holding a powerful video camera equipped with a spotting scope. The window was covered by a screen of blinds, and a floor-to-ceiling stretch of dark fabric hung behind the chair. Anyone in dark clothes sitting at the window was almost impossible to spot from outside.

A glance through the telescope revealed that it was trained on a storefront across the street. Nothing on the window or door of the storefront indicated what sort of enterprise was contained within its walls. Officially, Cemicon Ltd., a representative of the Israeli chemical industry, operated on the premises. Its product selection included motor oil additives, rust inhibitors and insecticides.

The company had only one employee: the Israeli citizen Leo Meir. Meir did not have a permanent residence, so he lived at his place of business. Which was precisely why the decision had been made to watch the property twenty-four hours a day.

Despite the fact that Meir had an interesting background, the Finnish Security Police wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of opening a file on him and setting up a dedicated operation had they not received a tip from the intelligence contact at the US Embassy. According to “reliable sources”, Leo Meir was in Helsinki to lay the groundwork for a high-profile assassination.

Unfortunately, though, even the omnipotent CIA did not know whom Meir was supposed to kill. All they knew was that he was under orders to act by mid-September.

That gave the Security Police a little over a month to find the target and stop the murder.