The Sinai Secret

FIFTY-SEVEN

Terminal Three

Ben Gurion International Airport

That Afternoon

As he stepped into the terminal, Chief Inspector Karl Rauch was met by a man and a woman. They could have been brother and sister, Hansel and Gretel. Each treated him to brilliant, orthodonticaly perfect smiles; each wore what, in the United States, would have been described as "business casual": polo shirts over khakis with knife-sharp creases; and each had that well-scrubbed look of youth, along with optimistic expressions that told Rauch neither had yet learned much about the world they lived in.

The man reached for the inspector's carry-on bag, his only piece of luggage. Though he rarely flew, Rauch had frequently been advised of the capricious nature of baggage once entrusted to the airlines.

The woman shook his hand while holding an ID wallet up for his inspection. "Come with us, Inspector," she said. "No need to waste time standing in line with all the tourists."

"Your German is perfect," Rauch observed as he walked beside her. "Your accent sounds like Berlin?"

"Very close. Potsdam. My grandparents, actually. If you remain long in Israel, you will note that almost every family speaks at least one tongue besides Hebrew. We are a nation of immigrants. Do you make a specialty of languages?"

"In my line of work, it is sometimes useful to recognize a particular dialect."

If the man, Hansel, understood German, he gave no sign of it. Instead he headed into the concourse, Rauch's bag in hand.

Rauch and the woman followed his suitcase. She politely asked the usual meaningless questions required of someone meeting a recently disembarked stranger. This was not exactly the reception a visitor on police business expected. Rauch felt more like a distant relative arriving at a family reunion.

The man in front eased his way past multiple lines of arrivees waiting their turn with customs and immigrations and, probably unknown to most, computerized facial scans by cameras concealed in the ceiling. Just short of the officials' glass booths, Hansel held open an unmarked door. Although the inspector was glad to bypass the bureaucratic traffic jam, he wished he had known the visa he had spent an hour or so securing would not be needed after all.

They entered a room without windows. There were six molded plastic chairs with legs and backs of chrome. Rauch wondered why anyone would go to such effort to make furniture look both so ugly and uncomfortable. Against the far wall was a Formica-topped table. The walls had a yellowish tint, a color someone might have thought cheerful when originally applied. It had since faded to the pigment of old nicotine.

The girl turned to him. "Forgive me for failing to introduce myself earlier. It seemed unwise in public. Lt. Heidi Strassman, Tel Aviv police."

Rauch felt a strong but not exaggerated grip. "You obviously know my name." He faced the man, hand outstretched. "And you?"

The smile was long gone from the young man; nor did he seem interested in shaking hands. "I speak no German," he said in English. "Aaron Gruber. Shin bet, national security."

Rauch withdrew his hand, frowning at the prospect of speaking English. It was not one of his greater achievements. With verbs randomly scattered about instead of neatly stacked at the end of each sentence, verbs that had no real endings, and nondeclension nouns, the language was oral chaos.

In Rauch's experience national security usually equaled some sort of intelligence operation. Why couldn't these people just admit it up front? "Might I ask what your interest in Mr. Reilly is?"

Gruber and Strassman exchanged glances before he spoke. "Your friend Reilly seems to be interested in a person also of interest to Israeli security services." She motioned him to a chair that was every bit as uncomfortable as he had anticipated. "What can you tell us about the American?"

Nothing they didn't already know, as it turned out.

"We intend to execute your request and arrest Mr. Reilly this evening," Gruber continued. "He is near a kibbutz near Gaza. Would you care to join us?"

Actually, Rauch would much rather find a hotel room with a hot shower, cool air-conditioning, and a decent dinner. He was not looking forward to the long return flight with Reilly in custody. But he said, "Of course. Thank you for asking me."

"We will go by helicopter," Gruber announced like a threat.

And it was.

Rauch was hated helicopters. From his limited experience they seemed unstable, bouncing around in the sky so that a man's stomach was in his throat as often as not. Worse, the main rotor was attached by what he understood was called the Jesus nut: If it came loose, you were going to see Jesus very soon.

"Helicopter?" he asked, hoping they could not see the blood he imagined was draining from his face.

"Helicopters," Gruber repeated. Rauch Was sure the young man was enjoying his discomfort. "We have three waiting for us if you're ready, Inspector."

Thoughts of helicopters eclipsed those of dinner. In fact, Rauch was feeling a little nauseated already.