A Gentleman's Game

17

Israel-Tel Aviv, Mossad Headquarters, Office of the Metsada Division Chief 6 September 1956 Local (GMT+3.00) Borovsky sat with his gangly legs crossed at the ankles and propped on Landau's desk, oblivious to the folders he toppled every time he moved his feet. The desk lamp threw long shadows on the cinderblock walls of the office.

"You know, the Arabs think by doing this, with my feet like this, I'm saying you're like the dirt on which I walk." Borovsky grinned. "They would say it was an insult, Noah, that I'm saying you're less than dirt."

Landau, still on the telephone, glared at Borovsky in the hopes that the look alone would shut the man up. It seemed to work, but not until Borovsky had barked another of his laughs. He didn't move his feet, however, until Landau was off the phone.

"That was your new friend at SIS?" Borovsky asked.

"Crocker, yes."

"They're going to do it?"

"They've already started. Their agent arrived in San'a' Saturday night."

Borovsky's face seemed to grow even narrower as he pondered this. "We have no intelligence that Faud's even left that fucking desert he hides in as yet. And fuck only knows if el-Sayd is on the move."

Landau didn't speak.

Borovsky shook his head. "They don't have a date. They're shooting in the dark."

"No, Crocker would not allocate an agent on a hunch. Not even for Faud."

"You're sure?"

"I wouldn't. He won't."

"Who did he send?"

"He did not say, but I think it would be Chace, the head of his Special Section."

"He any good?"

"She is the head of his Special Section, Viktor."

Borovsky's surprise was apparent but short-lived. "That's smart, that's clever. We need more women, you know that? The women, they can be fucking vicious."

Landau ignored him, pinched the bridge of his nose above his eyeglasses, trying to think.

"You think Crocker just told us to grab our ankles?" Borovsky asked.

"I don't know. I'm not sure. It was always a possibility."

"I think we're about to grab our ankles."

"Why?"

"We're Jews, Noah. If history has shown us anything, it's that we get screwed in the ass at every opportunity. You gave the British a gift, a chance for revenge, in exchange for which we asked for the opportunity to defend ourselves. What do you think will happen?"

"The decisions are political, not personal."

Borovsky shook his head, looking at Landau sadly. "Killing Faud is purely personal. It will not prevent another attack like they suffered. Faud is not the planner, he is the cheerleader. They've already cut us out, Noah. They sure as hell aren't going to expose themselves to take el-Sayd, too."

"No, we know Faud and el-Sayd are going to meet. That's the logical time to strike."

"You put too much faith in the British."

"Faith has nothing to do with it. You're Intelligence, Viktor, look at it logically."

"No, logic is for planners. I don't plan, I interpret, and that is something else." Borovsky folded his hands behind his head, sighing up at the ceiling. "We're going to get screwed."

Landau nodded slightly, conceding what Borovsky had said. He'd known when he'd gone to Crocker that there was the possibility the Mossad would be left out of the loop, and he'd understood that risk. El-Sayd would never be London's priority the way Faud was, and Landau could hardly fault the people at SIS for that. Each group ostensibly did what its commanding government felt was in its best interests. He bore Crocker no ill will.

But just as SIS had to serve England, Landau and the Mossad had to serve Israel.

"It'll have to go past the Chief," he said after a moment longer.

"What will?"

"Action." Landau reached for his phone again. "Put together a briefing, Viktor. I want our man in Yemen by tomorrow night."