Dead Line

FORTY-SIX

Time was running out. There were only five days left before the conference began, and Liz was getting nowhere in finding Kollek.

Then, just as she’d collected her afternoon mug of tea, onto her desk came Miles’s report from Tel Aviv, marked URGENT. Twenty minutes later she was still reading, while her tea sat untouched.

At Teitelbaum’s suggestion, they had met, not at the Mossad offices, but in a cafe on the edge of a small plaza in Tel Aviv.

Its equivalent in Damascus, thought Miles, who had only arrived the night before from Syria, would have been a dark hovel, cramped, filthy, foetid – and full of charm. This cafe was clean and neat, with metal tables and aluminium chairs, and utterly impersonal.

He’d had drinks the night before with Edmund White-house, the MI6 station head in Damascus, and helped by his description, Miles spotted the Israeli at once. Teitelbaum was sitting at an outside table, under the edge of the cafe’s awning, half in and half out of the sun. He wore a short-sleeved khaki shirt, open at the throat – the informal uniform of Israelis from generals to businessmen – and he was smoking a small brown cheroot and talking into a mobile phone. Looking at Teitelbaum, sitting there with his powerful forearms propped on the table, his bald head gleaming in the bright morning sun, Miles thought he was the spitting image of Nikita Khrushchev.

Teitelbaum put his phone in his pocket and stood up as Miles approached the table. They shook hands and Miles felt the man’s hand squeeze his with momentary force, then just as quickly relax. See, the gesture seemed to say, I could crush you if I wanted to.

Miles ordered an espresso from the waiter, then said, ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

Teitelbaum waved a dismissive hand. Then he asked, ‘You have flown from Washington?’

‘No. I’ve come from Damascus.’ He wasn’t going to lie; the old fox knew perfectly well where he’d come from.

Teitelbaum nodded. ‘Ah, our neighbours.’ He held up one arm, and Miles could see a long sliver of pink scar tissue, running in a faint crescent beneath the dark curly hair of his forearm. ‘I have always wanted to see the country that gave this to me. My relic of the Six Day War.’ He looked without emotion at Miles. ‘Now tell me how I can help you and Mr Tyrus Oakes.’

Across the square a man came out of the doorway of a jeweller’s shop. He was opening up, and bent down to unlock the steel cage-like grille that protected his window display. Miles took a deep breath and said, ‘Almost two months ago we received news of a potential threat to the peace conference that starts next week in Scotland. We were told that two individuals in the UK were working to undermine the Syrians’ participation in the conference.’

Miles couldn’t tell how much of this was news to Teitelbaum, but at least he was listening carefully. Miles went on, ‘One of these men is a Lebanese businessman based in London. The other was a British journalist, often in the Middle East.’

‘You say he was a journalist?’

‘That’s right. He’s dead. Apparently an accident, though some doubts have been expressed.’

Teitelbaum pursed his lips. ‘What were these men supposed to be doing to damage Syria and affect the conference?’

‘It’s not clear, and we may never know. The Lebanese man is in custody now – he’s facing charges over his business dealings, nothing to do with this. But it’s convenient from our point of view that he’s being held.’

‘Yes,’ said Teitelbaum, nodding slowly like a Buddha. ‘I can see that. And the other fellow is even more out of the way.’

Here comes the hard bit, thought Miles, and waited as the waiter delivered his small espresso.

Miles sipped his coffee – it was bitter and scalding hot. He put two sugar cubes in and stirred the cup while he gathered his thoughts. He could see the jeweller across the way struggling unavailingly with the lock of his grille, then give a gesture of exasperation and go inside his shop.

‘In looking into these two men, it was discovered that both of them claimed to be working for your service and one had ties with a member of your embassy in London.’

‘Oh,’ said Teitelbaum, as though there was nothing unusual about it. ‘Who was that?’

‘His name is Daniel Kollek.’

He watched Teitelbaum’s face for a reaction. There wasn’t one, which Miles took to be a reaction in itself. Teitelbaum said slowly, ‘I think I may have heard the name. But then, it’s a famous name in this country – you remember the Mayor of Jerusalem.’

‘Kollek is attached to the trade delegation, apparently.’

‘Really?’ said Teitelbaum with such a show of surprise that Miles was tempted to ask if he’d been to drama school. ‘But what would a trade officer have to do with such men? A Lebanese businessman and a journalist.’

He’s going to make me work for it, thought Miles. Every step of the way. ‘I thought maybe you could tell me.’

‘Me?’ Now the surprise was even more dramatic. ‘I’m just an intelligence officer six weeks short of retirement, ready to crawl off to my place in a kibbutz. What would I know about this?’

Miles ignored this: Edmund Whitehouse had told him that Teitelbaum had been proclaiming his imminent retirement for the last ten years. Across the plaza the jeweller had reappeared with another man, and the two of them set to work on the recalcitrant grille.

Teitelbaum said sharply, ‘Tell me, who discovered this supposed set of connections? You or the British?’

‘We’ve been working together on this,’ Miles said stolidly. What did the Brits like to say? Keep a straight bat. Well I’m trying, thought Miles, sensing Teitelbaum would otherwise do his best to drive a wedge between the US and the UK, and through Miles’s argument.

‘Ari Block has not mentioned this at all,’ said Teitelbaum. Block was the Mossad station head in London, as Miles well knew.

‘We haven’t spoken to Ari Block.’

‘I’m surprised. It seems to me that if MI5 imagined that there was an undeclared Mossad officer working in London they would raise the matter with Mr Block right away. Yet instead you’re here, on a confidential mission arranged by Tyrus Oakes himself.’

‘Yes, but I’m representing the British as well. I’m here with their blessing.’

Ah,’ Teitelbaum said with a child-like appreciation that did not conceal his scorn, ‘what an embarrass de richesse, Mr Brookhaven – to have Langley’s authority and a British blessing.’ He closed his eyes, as if transported by the sheer bliss of the scenario. When he opened them, he gave Miles a sceptical look. ‘I would not dream of doubting you, Mr Brookhaven, but I have to say I find your account of this… puzzling. And I don’t see why it should involve my organisation.’

‘Oh, that’s simple enough: we don’t believe for a moment that Kollek is just a trade officer. And we’re certain he was running Marcham.’ When Teitelbaum started to interrupt, Miles overrode him.

‘But that’s not all, Mr Teitelbaum. In the course of this investigation, someone tried to kill an MI5 case officer who was directing the British side of things. They came very close to succeeding, too.’

‘That could have been the Syrians,’ protested Teitelbaum, though he looked taken aback by this news. ‘They’ve never been known for their restraint.’

Miles was having none of it. Shaking his head sharply, he said, ‘Not in this instance. There was a Syrian presence we were worried about – trained heavies. But they’ve left the UK now and were closely followed while they were there. No, the attempt to murder the case officer had all the hallmarks of an individual effort.’

‘And you’re accusing Kollek?’ Teitelbaum demanded stiffly.

‘I’m not accusing anyone. But we are concerned. And if Kollek is one of yours, which we believe to be the case, then we wanted you to know about our worries.’

‘In the hope that I can somehow provide you with reassurance?’ There was a challenge in his voice.

‘Yes,’ said Miles. There was no point denying it.

Teitelbaum was silent for almost a minute. He stretched the fingers on one hand, looking at his nails. Then he said at last, ‘Let us play hypotheticals for a moment, Mr Brook-haven. Let us suppose, for example, that there is something in this idea of yours that Danny Kollek is not simply a trade officer. But that doesn’t explain your concern, now does it? Both of these men you mention have had Middle Eastern ties – it might well be they knew things that would interest someone like Kollek, assuming as I say for the sake of argument, that he had auxiliary interests to his normal embassy duties. And there’s certainly no reason to think he would have anything to gain by trying to kill an MI5 officer; the idea is insane. So just what is it you want to know about Mr Kollek?’

Miles thought for a moment; he was determined not to be put off by this cunning bruiser. He said carefully, ‘The bizarre thing about this case is that we don’t know whether the person behind it is working to hurt the Syrians, or to hurt other countries, or both. We’re sure the person isn’t Syrian himself, but whatever is motivating him has something to do with the place. So what I’d like to know about Kollek is if he has any kind of connection with Syria. I know it’s a long shot, but there it is.’

Silence hung between them, and for a moment Miles was convinced Teitelbaum was not going to answer his question. Miles saw the men across the plaza were still struggling to open the shutters. There was something almost farcical about their continuing efforts.

Teitelbaum seemed to make up his mind. He looked at Miles with dispassionate eyes, and said simply, ‘Let me tell you a story.’