Blood Of The Falcon

Five

On the night before the Melina incident, Avram Maltz, deputy assistant to the Minister of Maritime Trade, tried to take it on the lam.

Maltz skulked in the shadows of the underground parking garage beneath a Tel Aviv luxury high-rise apartment complex. Fourteen floors above, his wife of twenty-one years slept and snored, oblivious of the fact that her husband was flying the coop.

And good riddance! Maltz thought. Abandoning bovine Esther was the only good to come out of this unholy mess.

He traveled light. Aside from the clothes on his back, he carried only his passport, papers, and an attaché case crammed with cash.

He was getting out while he still could. He must have been insane to get in as deep as he had. Disgrace, utter ruin would have been better. His «associates» dealt out murder as casually as a traffic cop hands out citations.

Even Lemniak was afraid. Lemniak, with his international connections and his quartet of big, tough, well-armed bodyguards. That was the clincher for Maltz. If a big shot like Lemniak was trying to wriggle out and cut a private deal to save his own neck — and he was — then what chance did he, Maltz, have?

Less than none, but he didn't know that yet.

The deserted parking garage was unsettling, eerie at the midnight hour. Its elderly attendant was cozily installed in a subbasement room, sleeping on the job, as usual. Maltz had passed him earlier when he'd tiptoed down to the garage.

Maltz waited on the bottom landing of the stairs, peeking through the slightly ajar fire door. Looking down the ranks of parked cars, he saw no one. That was comforting, since he was sure he'd been followed for the last few days.

He wanted to be absolutely positive he was alone, but he couldn't wait forever. He had a plane to catch, a flight to New York City. When he arrived safely at his destination, he'd contact the authorities and tip them off.

Maltz made his break. He darted out the door, hustling down the aisles to his car.

Banks of overhead fluorescent lights hummed, flickered. From somewhere came the distant sound of machinery. At the garage's far end lay its exit, a broad archway opening onto a ramp rising to street level. Through it poured the nighttime sounds of the restless city.

His car was parked in the middle of the garage. Maltz was fumbling with his keys when a whistle shrilled.

He started guiltily, looking up. The whistle came from the street, but he saw no one.

Something flew into the garage.

Maltz froze, then thawed. The wind must have blown a child's kite down from the street. Only — there was no wind. No kite, either.

It was a bird, its wings flapping, a huge bird the likes of which he'd never seen. Flying straight for him, with a four-foot wingspan, gold and brown and tan speckled body, wickedly curved beak and outstretched talons.

A bird of prey. Swift, unerring, with deadly intent.

"Shoo! Shoo!" Maltz didn't want to betray his presence by shouting, but he was afraid. Terrified. Especially since the big bird closed in on a collision course.

He threw up his arms, shielding his face with the attaché case, then screamed as razor-sharp talons ripped his hands.

The bird hovered, flew away, dipped a wing to wheel around a concrete support post, then came back for another pass.

Maltz flailed at it, the hovering bird easily avoiding his clumsy swings. The attaché case cracked against a car's fender and popped open, spilling stacks of bills all over the floor.

The bird went for his head, ripping, tearing. Each talon was like a four-inch barbed fishhook rending his flesh. Half-blinded by blood, fear, and pain, Maltz covered his face with his hands.

The peregrine's talons tore open Maltz's soft throat.

Holding his neck, trying to stem the gush of blood, sobbing, gurgling, Maltz stumbled down the aisle, kicking wads of currency, careening off cars, dying.

Each beat of his furiously pounding heart sent fresh gouts of blood pulsing from his savaged throat, his rended veins and arteries. He gagged, spat, toppled, sprawled, convulsed.

A high-pitched whistle again sounded. Responding to its master's call, the peregrine ended its attack, wheeled. A few flaps of its powerful wings and it glided through the arched exit, into the street, and out of sight.

Avram Maltz bled to death before help arrived.

Israeli homicide detectives and forensic specialists, wise in the ways of violent death, were forced to confront a new and novel technique, unique in their experience:

Murder by falcon.

At noon of the following day, David Hawk occupied a table at an outdoor eatery in the pleasant seaside resort town of Lulav. The Etrog café was famed throughout the land for its house specialty, the succulent lemon chicken. Hawk lunched on blander fare, fillet of sole and a salad. He wanted to concentrate on the forthcoming meeting, not a meal.

Situated north of Tel Aviv and south of Herzeliyya, Lulav was charming, chic, and not a little expensive. The café was set back from the corner of an intersection in the town's elegant shopping district. Ranged on both sides of the thoroughfare, boutiques and shops vended their wares: silverwork, leather goods, ceramics, jewelry, antiquities, a host of handicrafts made by talented artisans. Street traffic was light, pedestrians were many.

The café's main room was of white stucco, trimmed with dark wood beams and pierced with round windows. Its patio held twenty tables, most of them occupied. Each table came equipped with a parasol that could be hand-cranked open or closed; Hawk's was open. Its shade and an occasional sea breeze eased the heat of the day.

An attentive waiter removed Hawk's plate and brought him a fresh iced tea. The white-haired, keen-eyed American idly rolled a cigar in his fingers as he scanned his fellow diners.

All in all, they were a typical sampling of tourists and natives, reassuring in their sun-splashed normality.

Not far from where he sat, a young woman soldier sipped a soft drink and leafed through a book of poetry. Her insignia marked the fatigue-clad beauty as a corporal in the reserves. She must be on a break or off duty, thought Hawk. Her Galil auto-rifle stood near at hand, propped against the pavilion's waist-high balustrade.

In Israel, one quickly grew used to the sight of male and female soldiers stationed at even the most peaceful-looking places. Security was paramount.

Her image touched memories in Hawk, reminding him of some of the women he'd known, beautiful and dangerous and brave. During World War II, when he was one of Wild Bill Donovan's OSS crew, parachuting behind enemy lines to link up with resistance partisans, he'd known a lady of the maquis, Marie… she'd gone to the wall of a Gestapo firing squad in January 1944.

Hawk sighed. The corporal must have heard him. She casually glanced up. He smiled. She smiled, too, then went back to her book.

What became of that raw recruit of so long ago, the reckless young David Hawk who thought that raw nerve and a fast gun were enough to save the world?

He was now the chief of AXE, still sticking his neck out some forty-odd years later.

Hawk was the only one at his table, but he was not alone. Two of his top agents were here with him. One of them approached his table.

Andy Stanton was a husky, handsome young fellow, an ex-Navy SEAL recruited by AXE who had distinguished himself in the field. He was pressing hard to attain the coveted Killmaster ranking.

He looked like a typical American tourist enjoying a jaunt to the Holy Land. Threading the aisles between tables, he sidestepped to avoid a platter-laden waiter, a purposeful detour taking him right past Hawk.

Andy whispered in an aside, "Griff spotted our man." He kept on walking, not breaking stride. He eyed the corporal with open admiration. Her slow, sidelong glance showed she did not object to the attention from the big, good-looking man.

At the other side of the raised patio, a wide gap opened in the balustrade, allowing broad, shallow stairs to spill to the sidewalk.

Up those stairs scurried a disreputable-looking character clad in a wrinkled white suit and straw Borsalino hat. Head hunched forward, body stooped, hands jammed in pockets, he crossed the pavilion as if eager to get out of the sun as soon as possible.

It took Hawk an instant to place this rumpled, nervous man as the once suave, elegant Delos Lemniak.

Looking neither left, right, nor up, he weaved past tables and patrons, on the verge of collision a half-dozen times yet somehow always veering clear at the last possible second.

At least one thing about Lemniak hadn't changed. He was still skating by on the skin of his teeth.

Lemniak made a beeline for Hawk's table. He panted, out of breath, "Holloway, good to see you."

"Delos," Hawk acknowledged.

Delos Lemniak had been bouncing around the Levant and the eastern Mediterranean for decades. He was a fixer and a bagman, dealmaker, profiteer, corruptor. A clearinghouse for information. Everyone's friend, and no one's friend. His integrity was well known: he was scrupulously faithful to the highest bidder, regardless of race, creed, or cause.

He knew Hawk as "Bart Holloway." Holloway was a cover identity established by Hawk well over a generation ago, back before the founding of AXE. As Holloway, Hawk had made many useful connections, and he found it advantageous to resurrect the legend from time to time.

Such as now. Lemniak «knew» Holloway was CIA. Working through a cutout — a third party — Lemniak sent a message requesting a meeting. This was it.

Had Hawk suspected for one second that Lemniak knew his true identity as the head of AXE, the rendezvous would not have taken place. As himself, David Hawk was number one on a dozen kill lists.

Despite the precautions, Hawk was taking a risk. But he relished this game of multiple identities and the chance to work in the field once more.

Besides, Lemniak just might have something of value.

They shook hands. Lemniak's was soft, moist, warm. It felt like a boiled fish, and was so sweaty that Hawk's hand came away wet. Hawk wiped it clean on a napkin while Lemniak sat down. He sat facing the street.

The waiter swooped down on them. Lemniak ordered a Campari and soda. No sooner was it delivered than he gulped it down, then immediately ordered another round.

"Well, Delos, what's on your mind?" Hawk said.

"I have something to sell. Something big."

"With a price to match, no doubt."

"It's worth it."

"I'm listening."

Lemniak mopped his face with a limp handkerchief. It was already soaked, so rubbing his face with it only served to move the sweat around.

"My price is one million in gold, plus a new identity in the country of my choice," he said.

Hawk's smile was ice-cold. "Why not ask for the moon, too, while you're at it?"

"I don't understand."

"Back in the States, our government is running up a trillion-dollar deficit. Uncle Sammy is way in debt and it's time for belt-tightening. Not that I could have gotten you a million even in the salad days."

"A million is cheap for what I've got," Lemniak hissed.

"What have you got? You know how the game is played, Delos. We don't buy a pig in a poke. Give me some idea of what you've got, then we'll talk."

"All right. I…"

Lemniak gave a violent start as two gaily shrieking youngsters dashed past the table. Seated a few tables away, their mother gave Hawk one of those what-can-you-do? looks.

Lemniak stopped shaking and got a grip on himself. He was in sad shape, a bundle of nerves.

"Militant Islam," he said.

Hawk sighed. "If that's your big secret, we might as well call it a day. We've known about Militant Islam since the organization was formed in Qom six months ago. Nice seeing you again, Delos. The drinks are on me."

Lemniak was under pressure and Hawk tightened the screws by making as if he were about to leave.

"Don't be so cocksure, Holloway." Lemniak was rattled, and showing it. "What about Operation Ifrit? Does that mean anything to you?"

Indeed it did. Ever since the Big Three of the radical Islamic states — Libya, Iran, and Syria — founded the Militant Islam group in the holy city of Qom, the Middle East had been abuzz with rumors of a new wave of terrorist assaults. The action was code-named Operation Ifrit.

Not coincidentally, the last communication AXE received from Agent N3 stated that he was following up a hot lead concerning that same operation. That was over six weeks ago. Since then, Carter hadn't been seen or heard from. The earth seemed to have swallowed him up.

Something of Hawk's poker face slipped. He showed a flicker of interest, and Lemniak picked up on it, which was encouraging, demonstrating as it did that the old con artist was not too far gone to have lost all critical judgment. That was why Hawk engineered the deliberate slip in the first place. Perhaps Lemniak's judgment could be relied on in other matters as well.

Lemniak pounced. "I see that does mean something to you! You wouldn't be in Israel right now if not for Ifrit."

"Why don't you sell whatever you've got to the Israelis?"

"Don't be absurd! They don't toss that kind of money around."

"Neither do we."

"Besides, I don't trust them. They're compromised."

"Compromised?"

"Penetrated. Infiltrated. Subverted."

Hawk did not bother to hide his disbelief. "By whom?"

"Ah-hah." Lemniak waved a chiding finger. "That's part of what I've got to sell."

"That might be worth something — if it's true."

"It's true, all right, and it's only part of the package I'm offering. Israel's not the only target, you know. America's Arab allies are slated for punishment too."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"What's a paltry million dollars compared to the toll in lives and property you'll save? Would you have paid a million to block Khomeini's rise to power? To save Sadat? To keep your Marines from being blown up in Beirut? Of course you would. I tell you, those debacles are child's play compared to Ifrit."

"That brings us back to the big question. What have you got?" Hawk asked.

"The boss of terror." Lemniak was smug, scenting victory in the negotiations. "The linchpin, the mastermind behind the entire plot."

"Who is it?"

"I know who he is and where he is. He's not far from here." A shudder ripped Lemniak's smugness. "There's still time for you to kill him if you act now. Don't try to take him alive. He's too dangerous for that. Kill him."

"Who?"

"I'll tell you that much. It won't do you any good without the rest of the information." Lemniak leaned forward. "His name is R…"

Gunfire interrupted the revelation.

Petra Kelly didn't like rush jobs. They were particularly dicey here in the Land of Zion, where universal military service and an armed citizen-soldiery stacked the deck against a successful action.

But she liked dying even less. Her master enforced a uniform policy regarding such infractions as disobedience, insubordination, failure to carry out an assignment. Offenders were executed. Messily.

She was the sole daughter and eldest child of a wealthy Dublin tradesman. Her revolt against affluence and privilege took her into the Provo wing of the IRA. She concealed her family background, fearful that she would not be taken as a serious comrade because of it. After she made her first kill, nobody ever told her to make tea again.

She did her murderous work well. Who would imagine that such a lovely green-eyed colleen was a terrorist? Northern Ireland proved too small a venue for one of her talents, so she got on the international circuit, wreaking havoc throughout Europe and the Mediterranean.

And then one day she got involved in Operation Ifrit, and since then, her life was no longer her own. She belonged body and soul to her master.

He never took her, never even touched her. He desired only that she continue doing what she was so good at: killing. And killing, and killing, and killing.

She liked the work, but she feared him. Quite an individual, this man who terrified the terrorists.

Petra was leggy and lissome. Her short red hair was netted and flattened under a blond wig. Oversize sunglasses masked much of her elfin face, giving her a vaguely buglike look.

She wore a sleeveless white V-necked dress that displayed the inner curves of her firm, pert breasts. Slung over her shoulder was a large woven straw bag, the sort available at every souvenir stand, a type used by many tourists.

Petra was not alone. Joining her on the job was Ulli Schwob, late of the German Red Army Faction. Ulli was ten years her senior, half a head taller, and some fifty pounds heavier. She was built like the Brunnhilde of a third-rate Wagnerian opera company.

Ulli also wore a light summer dress, and, like Petra, toted a straw bag. The pair sat at a table not far from Hawk.

Ulli kept craning her neck, peering down into the street. Her vigil was now rewarded.

A taxi pulled up to the curb, disgorging four armed men. They looked worried but grimly intent on carrying out their business.

The master had provided plenty of firepower for this job.

Petra and Ulli went to work. They stood up and started shooting.

While he was verbally fencing with Lemniak, Hawk's eyes had been in constant motion, systematically scanning his surroundings for the jarring detail that spells danger. Something about Petra and Ulli had nagged at his sixth sense, and his gaze kept returning to them.

Perhaps it was the matching straw totes sported by the two innocent-seeming women. There was no reason why companions might not have identical bags, but surely it was more than coincidence that they both had reached inside them at the same time…

Gunfire crackled on the street and sidewalk.

Ulli and Petra fished Uzis out of their bags and stood up. The unexpected gunplay behind them threw off their timing.

Hawk was already in motion.

He didn't waste time on shouted warnings. Even as he threw himself out of his chair, he pulled Lemniak down and to the side.

The deadly pair's opening rounds passed overhead, missing the two prone men but striking a waiter. The café's outdoor patio was transformed into a scene of instant chaos. Pandemonium.

Tables were overturned, panicked patrons threw themselves flat on the floor, shrieks and sobs counter-pointed the rat-a-tat-tat of high-velocity submachine gun rounds.

Yoga workouts kept Hawk supple, but the drop to the floor jarred his bones. He tipped over the table, its heavy rim cracking the stones with a deafening crash.

Lemniak was whimpering and babbling at the same time.

Adjusting her line of fire, Petra held her Uzi low, sweeping the slugs toward Lemniak. Bullets gouged a trail of holes across the stone floor.

Something totally unexpected happened to Petra. She was shot. Twice. She went down.

Now where the hell did that come from? Hawk wondered. From the corner of his eye he saw Andy Stanton crouching low, snapping off shots.

Good boy. He'd make Killmaster yet, if they all lived through this engagement.

Ulli took out the corporal early on, or so she thought. The beautiful sabra's right arm was half shot off at the shoulder, but somehow she got her Galil into play.

She poured a burst into Ulli. Ulli put up her hands as if they could prevent the slugs from hitting her. She went down in a hail of bullets.

The quartet of backup gunmen had run into trouble as soon as they piled out of the taxi. Trouble's name was Griff. The whole shooting match went off ahead of schedule because the black AXE agent started blasting when the killers stepped out on the sidewalk.

Only two members of the original foursome survived the gunplay with Griff. The other two sprawled dead on the pavement.

Griff ducked behind a tree, trading shots with the taxi driver, who used his cab for cover.

There was a lull, an almost silent pause.

Lemniak stood up.

"Don't!" Hawk grabbed for Lemniak's leg from his prone position but missed. Lemniak scuttled toward the main building.

The corporal slumped out of her seat, dead, her weapon skittering on the flagstones. Hawk crawled to it.

Lemniak didn't have far to go, only a few more paces, but it was too far.

The last two gunmen stormed the pavilion. They came on shooting.

Lemniak had almost reached safety when both gunmen opened up on him at the same time. He went down.

And so did they. Andy Stanton hit one twice. Hawk brought the corporal's Galil back into play, firing from the prone position. It still held half a clip, which he emptied into the killers.

Griff ran out of ammo and had to reload. The taxi driver jumped in his cab and threw it in gear.

Petra Kelly was down, but not out. One of Stanton's bullets had blown a chunk out of her upper arm. The other hit not her, but her weapon, tearing it from her hand so hard that her finger was broken by the trigger guard. Shock had set in; she hardly felt her injuries. She had the sense to play possum until there was a lull in the shooting.

She jumped up, a blur of motion as she vaulted the pavilion wall.

Stanton shot at her — or rather he pulled the trigger at her, the hammer falling on an empty chamber. In the confusion he had forgotten to keep track of his shots, and now he didn't have any more.

Petra ran screaming to the cab. "Wait! Wait! Don't leave me!"

She had not time to open the door. She just threw herself headfirst through an open window while the cab was moving. Her long legs jutted out of the right rear window as the cab took off in a screaming start.

Tires screeched, smoking, burning rubber. The cab took the corner on two wheels, zooming into the distance.

Stanton hurried over to Hawk. "You okay, sir?"

"Yes."

He helped Hawk to his feet. "You're bleeding."

"Just cuts. I'm all right. Are they all dead?"

"Jeez, I don't know. Wait — there's Griff!"

Griff was a cautious man. Gun in hand, he warily circled the two Hawk had taken down. They were dead. Ulli, too.

"Looks like it's all over but the postmortems," Griff said.

The innocent bystanders shakily picked themselves up, not quite believing they had come through it alive.

A woman shrieked, raw and piercing. The mother Hawk had seen earlier. One of her children had been hit.

"Holy hell," Stanton whispered. "What a mess!"

Lemniak was still alive. He'd been mortally wounded, but he was holding on as long as he could.

Hawk, kneeling beside him, gently asked, "Who?"

Lemniak's hands shot up, grabbed Hawk's shirt front, pulled his head down. His mouth worked, laboring to form a word, the name.

Hawk tried again. "Who?"

"Reguiba," Lemniak wheezed. Then he died.