The Plan

Chapter 58.

THE HIGHWAY SLOPED DOWN, LOSING ELEVATION AS THEY headed east toward Tel Aviv. To the south, a jagged coastline framed Jaffa Harbor where the first Zionist pioneers had landed in 1882. Ancient stone buildings stood guard along the coast, baking in the somnolent heat. The city of Tel Aviv blended into the outskirts of Jaffa.

They dropped down farther and soon were on the broad, paved streets of the city. Tel Aviv was as modern as L. A. and as ancient as the Bible. It reflected the best and the worst-a city of mirrors.

They moved down Shenkin Street and turned onto Allenby Road, and, before long, they pulled up to the hotel. The Carlton was a five-story architectural mistake that had been located in what became a business district when the city grew to the north. Journalists liked it because the switchboard was secure, the location was central, and you could get sloshed on two or three drinks at the "international bar," where the policy was to pour doubles for anybody with a press pass.

Ryan handed over the cash and they booked two rooms. In five minutes, they were all upstairs in Cole and Kaz's cubicle, which overlooked the shops on Allenby. An old air conditioner wheezed and coughed tepid air into the threadbare room. Cole was sitting on the bed, using the phone, trying to find somebody at Reuters who could help them. None of the old crowd seemed to work there anymore. He'd tried names of five journalists who were no longer assigned to Tel Aviv when he remembered Naomi Zur, an American woman he'd always had a thing for. She was a photojournalist and he'd tried for months to get her in the sack, but she was in love with an Israeli colonel. The phone was ringing her extension, and after a moment, he heard a familiar husky female voice.

"Photo Ops, Naomi Zur speaking."

"I've been trying to get this burnoose on and I can't remember… Do you wrap the east end under the crown or do you hook it behind your ear and tuck it in back?" he said, recalling a time they both had tried to infiltrate a Palestinian refugee camp to get a story. Cole made a lousy Arab and almost got them killed.

"Jesus, Cole… If you're back, I'm gonna put in for an immediate transfer."

"Hey, Naomi, it wasn't that bad. How 'bout lunch at the restaurant downstairs in the Kolbo Shalom?"

Reuters was located directly over one of Tel Aviv's largest shopping centers, dominated by the Kolbo Shalom department store.

"Who's buying?" She remembered that Cole had a reputation for never picking up tabs.

"That's why they put those matchbooks in the ashtrays, Naomi, so people can draw straws."

And then he couldn't help himself… "By the way, how's Uri?"

"He died. Land mine," she said flatly.

"I'm sorry." Cole remembered the ruggedly handsome Israeli war hero who had risked his life countless times. "See you in an hour… I'll buy this time."

He lunged off the bed and grabbed his light coat and headed for the door.