The Spoils of War. Gordon Kent

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СКАЧАТЬ shook her head. “I don’t understand—who would—Was it the Palestinians?”

      “They wouldn’t dare. An American?” Her laughter was edged with contempt. “Who dares to snatch an American off the street in Israel? Gangsters? Not possible.” She took out a cigarette. “They might dare to take a policewoman, but not an American.” She eyed Rose. “He says you made him quit.”

      “I don’t—oh, smoking. Go ahead.” She tried to be patient as the woman fiddled with a lighter, but she burst out, “How bad is it?” Her brain was turning over possibilities, actions: should she telephone the embassy? The Navy in Bahrain? Mike Dukas? It was confusing because the woman was the police, the first ones she would have called.

      “It is Mossad; it has to be Mossad; nobody else dares. You know what I mean, Mossad?” She told Rose how she and Alan had spent the hours he had been away—how he had found her at the police station on Dizengoff Street; she had told him what she knew; she had taken him to a place where the body had been hidden. “Then, when we come out, they grab him. And knock me down and drive me around. I am not pleased.”

      “How bad is it?”

      The woman blew smoke. “These are some very stupid people, but how stupid they can be, I don’t know. My idea is that they can’t be stupid enough to do something large. But, when they find he is an American officer, they may be frightened.”

      “Scared people do stupid things.”

      “Just so.” The woman met her eyes. The look was open, curious, challenging. “You are brave?”

      “I’m a naval officer, too.”

      The eyes appraised her, made some judgment. “So.” She screwed the cigarette into an ashtray. “The formalities you can forget—reporting to the police, I mean. I did that. They told me to shut up. Now you must do whatever things will bring weight on them. Understand?”

      “Pressure.”

      “Yes, okay—pressure. I say it is Mossad.” She took out another cigarette. “It is Mossad. Press.”

      “I can call my embassy—”

      “If you call as a citizen, they will be days doing anything. I know. You have friends? You can—” she made a motion—“do you say ‘pull strings’?”

      “Yes, that’s what we say. And yes, I can. Why won’t the police help?”

      “When your husband and I had seen this body, this dead man, I called Homicide. They didn’t come. Why? Because some voice came from up high and said don’t.”

      “But they attacked you. You’re police.”

      “Exactly, and so my superiors are, mmm, confused. Not very daring people. They are angry because of this—” She flicked her fingers at her bruised face again. “But beyond a certain place, they have to ask themselves, ‘How far dare we go?’ The right thing is not always the right thing, understand?” She touched Rose’s hand. “I was afraid you would be one of those screamers, you know?”

      “No, I’m not a screamer.” She stood. “Except when I get mad. What are you going to do?”

      “Try to find your husband. I keep you informed, I assure you.”

      Rose nodded, hugged herself. “I’ll go pull strings.”

      The naval attaché in Bahrain was a senior captain who was as politically astute as a presidential campaign manager. He would make admiral but not as a battle-group commander; he’d probably wind up at NATO or the National Security Council, and he’d probably serve as attaché again at some even more vital post than Bahrain. Rose had worked for him for almost two years, respected him, liked him in a cautious way, trusted him within certain bounds. Now, she got herself on a secure phone at Abe Peretz’s office in the American embassy. The Bahrain attaché wasn’t available until she told his aide that the matter was important enough to affect USIsraeli relations—something she’d worked out for herself on the cab ride.

      “Rose, what is this?”

      “Sir, my apologies for taking you away from—” Her voice was trembling, and she tried to control it.

      “No apology necessary, but you know how things go here. What’s up?”

      “A policewoman has told me that my husband has been grabbed off the street by agents of Mossad.” She waited a beat; when he didn’t speak she said, “If it really happened that way, at the very least the US should make a stink at a high level. An American officer—”

      “Alan was grabbed on the street?”

      “He was carrying out an assignment for NCIS. I don’t know the details; he said it was routine, just a bother.”

      “You’re sure he’s missing.”

      “He’s two hours late.” She saw how flimsy the story might sound, but she called up an image of Miriam Gurion’s face and eyes. “The policewoman who told me is a sergeant. She gave me ID. I don’t have any reason not to believe her.”

      Again, there was silence. Then he said, “You get confirmation. Get confirmation of the policewoman. This is an ugly business, Rose. We can’t—you can’t—be accused of going off half-cocked. You’ve got to nail it down.” She waited, not wanting to push him, and he said, “What can I do?”

      “Tell me how to get in a pipeline to somebody important so that when I can prove all this, somebody’ll be ready to holler.”

      “I can do better than that. I’ll flag a buddy at State. You nail this down, Rose—nothing can go until you do. And don’t let it get to you, okay? If the policewoman is right, Mossad will be treating him like a visiting head of state.”

      She said Oh, yeah to herself but babbled something aloud about gratitude, and then he was gone.

      At NCIS, Naples, Mike Dukas was on another line, but Dick Triffler was available.

      “Hey, Rose, what a pleasure.”

      “Somebody’s grabbed Alan.” She told it fast, again fighting a tremor in her voice. “What do I do?”

      “Okay, the police know and aren’t doing anything. You’ve called your boss. You better touch base with the embassy in Tel Aviv, no matter how cautious they’ll be. You have to—” Peculiar sounds came through the phone, then his voice saying something to somebody else, and then he was back. “Mike’s getting on the line from his office. Mike? You there?”

      “Rose, what the hell?” Dukas sounded anguished—not for Alan, she knew, but for her. Dukas was in love with her, an old, old story; the whole world knew it. “You okay?”

      “Mike, Alan was grabbed by Mossad. He was doing your damned errand in Tel Aviv!”

      “No way, it was a routine—”

      Triffler broke in. “Routine jobs go wrong, Mike; shut up. She needs advice.”

      “But СКАЧАТЬ