The Temple Mount Code

9

Colonel Davari disliked the restaurant as soon as he laid eyes on it. From a tactical point of view, it was too open. Only glass walls separated diners from passersby walking along Wien Street. A coolheaded sniper could take out nearly half a dozen people before they knew they were being gunned down.

He also disliked the restaurant because it was so ostentatious. The black interior, the elegantly clothed servers, and the expensive ambiance all screamed decadent Western civilization.

Today he dressed the part of a European, in a dark suit without the keffiyeh, his hair and beard freshly cut at the hotel barber’s, and swathed in cologne.

A maître d’ met him at the door. ‘May I help you, sir?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Davari spoke German with an accent, as well as Romanian, and a handful of other languages. ‘I am looking for Herr Von Volker. I am to be his guest.’

The young maître d’ checked an electronic list at his podium. ‘Yes, sir, Herr Von Volker is dining with us tonight, and is already here. If you’ll follow me, please.’

Davari followed the maître d’ across the floor, ending up where he least wanted to be: at one of the tables in front of one of those windows.

‘Herr Von Volker, your guest has arrived.’

The Austrian held a mobile to his face and listened, turning his head just enough to make eye contact with Davari. Von Volker was a big man with sandy blond hair going gray at the temples. His eyes were light blue and moved constantly.

Feeling even more irritated at the man for so casually dismissing him, Davari sat and waited. A server arrived to take his drink order: a water, and he had to select from a dozen different kinds. By the time the glass showed up at the table with a lemon wedge stuck to the rim, Von Volker was pocketing the mobile.

‘I do apologize, Colonel.’ Von Volker sipped his glass of champagne. ‘Sometimes business waits for no man.’

‘I understand. I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.’ With effort, Davari thought he managed to sound sincere.

‘It’s my pleasure. The food here is excellent. If you’d like, I’d be happy to order for you.’

‘If you insist.’ Davari wasn’t there for the meal, but a soldier learned to eat whatever he could whenever possible.

The server returned, and Von Volker spoke quickly in German before turning back to his guest.

‘I understand there was a problem during your last stop.’ Von Volker’s clear blue eyes held Davari’s.

‘Evidently our security has not been as tight as we had wished.’

‘I’ll bet that made the old man angry.’

Rage coursed through Davari, and he barely restrained himself. The Ayatollah wasn’t a figure to be mocked. ‘When you speak of that man, speak with respect.’

Von Volker shrugged. ‘It’s just a figure of speech. I intended no harm.’

Davari didn’t believe the Austrian. Von Volker thought he was clever and untouchable, but he was no fool. While he’d walked to the table, the Quds colonel had identified five bodyguards sitting at different tables around them, and three more were questionable.

But it was Von Volker’s ego that would get him into trouble. He sat in front of the window, requiring only one skilled sniper to assassinate him, in spite of his protection.

A small, covered plate arrived at the table. The server removed the lid to reveal hot sausages, the steam from them floating into the air.

Von Volker pointed to the plate with his fork. ‘I know you can’t eat them because of your faith, but I do love them.’

‘Please. Enjoy yourself.’ The meal just underscored the separation between them.

The Austrian pierced a sausage and put it on his plate, cutting it into bite-sized pieces. He showed no hesitation about eating in front of a stranger. Of course, as one of the leaders of the Austrian People’s Party, Von Volker probably ate with strangers more often than he ate at home. In addition to the day-to-day business of politics, there were also the necessary meetings with ‘invisible’ constituents.

And then there was the illegal business Von Volker conducted. Companies hidden within companies running hired mercenaries that supplied the Islamic Republic of Iran with nuclear material and weapons of late. Publicly, Von Volker chastised the Ayatollah’s cabinet for their repressive regime, while at the same time lobbying for Iran to have access to nuclear technology for power and peaceful pursuits.

No one in the Western world believed Iran would stop there. Davari knew they wouldn’t. He’d already seen many of the plans.

The server returned and placed a green salad in front of the colonel. He made no move to touch it.

‘Please. Eat.’ Von Volker pointed at the salad with his fork.

‘I ate before my arrival.’ Davari suspected the man might have had something placed on the salad that would go against the Islamic faith. It was childish, but according to his files, the man was not above that. ‘Thank you.’

With a shrug, Von Volker returned to his meal. ‘As you wish. We are not enemies, you know.’ He waved his fork to indicate both of them. ‘We — you and I — hate the Jews. Our people, though some of mine are misguided and forgetful these days, hate the Jews. We share this, and this common enemy makes us friends.’

Davari didn’t share that point of view, but he knew the Ayatollah trusted the anti-Semitic feeling in Austria. There were many problems in the Middle East, and not everyone favored Israel or held the Jews blameless in the conflict. The Ayatollah pumped money into the People’s Party, and to Von Volker in particular. In return, the Austrian and his partners acquired fissionable nuclear materials and technology to give to Iran.

The server returned, carrying a large plate filled with steak, shrimp, and sautéed vegetables. He placed it before Von Volker with a flourish, then refilled his wine glass. Taking a piece of silverware in each hand, the Austrian surveyed his gastronomical battlefield with the practiced eye of an invading general.

‘Your master told me there was something you required my help with, Colonel. I suppose this has something to do with the fiasco in the Gaza.’

Davari throttled his anger and kept his voice calm. ‘Yes.’

‘As I understand it, your friend on the ground there was looking for someone.’

‘A university professor named Lev Strauss.’ Davari took a snapshot of Strauss from his pocket and slid it facedown across the tabletop.

Von Volker lifted the picture and took a quick glance. Then he left the picture lying facedown. ‘He isn’t known to me.’

‘There is no reason he should be. The professor has had an interesting history.’ Davari recited Strauss’s background from memory. ‘He was recruited by the Mossad while he was at Harvard in the United States. He continued working missions for them while he was at Oxford, then a plane he was on was booby-trapped over thirteen years ago. It blew up and went down in the Dead Sea region. Strauss lost his left leg below the knee in the crash.’

‘No more missions.’

‘He remains on active duty, but these days he spends his time in dusty libraries as a true scholar.’

Von Volker lifted his eyebrows and smiled. ‘Except — something changed.’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘At this point, that information is restricted. On a need-to-know basis.’ Davari knew that the Westerners liked their little spy games. The truth was that the Ayatollah did not want anyone told the nature of the prize they sought.

The Austrian sliced off a chunk of bloody meat. ‘I would be better able to help if I knew what was going on.’ He popped the piece into his mouth.

‘Right now, we need Strauss found. That is all you need to concern yourself with at the moment.’

‘He’s not in the Gaza anymore?’

‘No.’

‘Where did he run?’

‘According to the two guards my friend spoke with, the professor has returned to Jerusalem.’

‘You have people there.’

‘We had people.’ Davari had read the reports on the executions of those Quds agents only hours ago. ‘They tried to capture the professor.’

‘And got themselves killed?’

‘Yes.’

Von Volker smiled. ‘So the prey has already been spooked in the Gaza and in his homeland.’

‘He is still there.’

‘Sitting quietly in some sequestered hideaway while the Mossad watch over him, waiting for the rats to come to the cheese?’ Von Volker shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Davari remained silent.

‘You’re not painting a very appetizing picture, my friend.’

The colonel had run out of patience. ‘I’m not painting anything. I’m offering you a job to perform, one my master believes you are in a position to accomplish. If you don’t want to risk it, simply say so, and I will go to the next man on my list.’

Von Volker chuckled. He pointed his fork at Davari. ‘You’re the next man on your list, aren’t you?’

Davari glared at the man, but stayed silent.

‘Yes, you are. You can’t fool me.’ The Austrian blotted his lips on his napkin. ‘Well, let me tell you, my friend, you’re not good enough to get into Jerusalem and get back out again. All you’ll end up doing is getting yourself killed. Then your master is going to have to go to the next man on his list. Work with me, and we can both get what we want.’

Davari refrained from commenting with a supreme effort. What the Austrian said was true, and it angered him that the man knew.

‘I can get to Lev Strauss.’ Von Volker returned his attentions to his plate.

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘Because, just as you have a secret, so do I.’ Von Volker smiled confidently. ‘I will hand the professor over to you in a matter of days. And then we will talk about my bonus.’