EIGHTEEN.
Freidman had been the
chief architect of many such actions over the last two decades. As
David's eyes adjusted to the dim lights, he got a better look at
the man. Though they had never met, the two enemies stared at each
other with the familiarity of lifelong rivals. Neither spoke and
the tension continued to build.
Spielman, nervous
that his friend might turn around and leave, offered an apology for
bringing a guest.
"Jabril, I'm sorry
for surprising you like this, but I can explain."
David's eyes left
Freidman's and looked at his old friend. He decided, for now, not
to reply. Even though he was caught off guard that their little
two-person club had a new member, he knew he shouldn't have been.
The information that he had given Spielman during their last
meeting was bound to wake up some people at the Institute, as
Mossad was commonly referred to by insiders.
Slowly, David walked
closer to the two men and grabbed a chair, not the one right next
to Spielman, as he normally did, but one a few away. The message
was clear; he would listen, but it would not be business as usual.
The other thing he hoped to convey was his mistrust of a monster
like Freidman. Always the pragmatist, though, David knew the
director general of Mossad was a nemesis that the bloodthirsty
Palestinian leadership had created. It was a case of action and
reaction.
Absent his normal
charm, David looked to Spielman and said, "I didn't know we were
allowed to bring visitors. I'm sure I could have found someone to
join us."
Spielman didn't
laugh.
"Believe me, it
wasn't my idea." Inside, the elderly professor was still seething
over Freidman's dictum that he would accompany him to the
meeting.
It made no difference
that when Freidman was a case officer, he recoiled at any attempt
by his superiors to meet one of his assets. In Spielman's harsh
opinion, Freidman was a control freak and a bully, and a man who
fanned the flames of Palestinian-Israeli hatred. He was exactly the
type of person that could upset the hard-fought and delicate
friendship he had cultivated with Jabril.
Knowing Spielman well
enough, David could tell that he was sincere. He gave him a slight
nod, signaling that he was willing to take him at his word, at
least for now.
Leaning forward, out
of the shadows, Freidman placed his brawny forearms on the table
and in a raspy voice asked, "Do you know who I am?"
"Of course." David
maintained an almost disinterested attitude.
He'd read the PLO's
meager file on the man and had heard many stories.
Born in Jerusalem in
1949, Freidman went on to distinguish himself in the Six Day War of
1967. After the war he was transferred to AMAN, Israel 's military
intelligence organization, and then later Mossad. At Mossad he
became a very effective kid on or in the common parlance of the
business, an assassin. He specialized in hunting down members of
Yasser Arafat's Force 17. His tenacious ability to track people
across multiple continents made him a greatly feared warrior in the
struggle for his people's security.
"I have kept an eye
on you," stated Freidman, "for many years, and have been looking
forward to this day for some time."
David wondered if he
meant simply meeting him, or meant wrapping his large hands around
his throat and choking him to death. It was quite possibly a bit of
both, for he had no doubt that Ben Freidman was cut from the same
cloth as the militant terrorists who governed his own people. The
enemy was the enemy, and there was no need to analyze it much
further than that. There was no distinction or recognition of the
individual. The condemnation was made of the entire Palestinian
society, and conversely of all Israelis. It was this line of
thinking that allowed these men to launch blunt attacks with no
concern over who was killed. It was the rationale that allowed them
to sleep at night and claim that their cause was the truly just
one.
There were many
directions David could take this. There were many questions in fact
that he would very much like to ask the dark angel who was sitting
across from him, but there were schedules to be kept, goals to be
met and a country to be made. Besides, it was somewhat comforting
to know that, during the course of the next two weeks, the man
sitting across from him would feel pressure like he'd never felt
before.
Eschewing anything
controversial, and swallowing his pride, David said, "And I have
looked forward to meeting you."
Freidman smirked as
if to say he doubted the sincerity of the comment, and then said,
"Tell me Jabril, and excuse me if I sound distrustful, but it is my
nature. This meeting tonight, why would all of these people risk
gathering in one place?"
David wondered how
good Freidman's intelligence was. It was highly likely that he had
assets who could give him pieces to the complex puzzle. Those
pieces on their own would prove nothing, but they might raise or
lower his level of cynicism. Truthfully, he answered, "It is not
that unusual for them to gather under one roof."
The bald man looked
skeptical.
"The leaders of
Hamas, the head of the Palestinian General Intelligence and the
leaders of Force 17
this is a common occurrence that they all get
together to plot the destruction of my people?"
David stayed the
course.
"Yes."
"I find it hard to
believe they could stand the sight of each other."
"Let's just say they
are united in their hatred of you
and their desire for
money."
Things began to make
sense for the head of Mossad. At first he thought Jabril was
invited to the terrorism summit as a mere financial representative,
but now he saw there might be more to it. It was possible that with
his fund-raising prowess, he was able to call such meetings
himself, in order to distribute cash. A recent piece of
intelligence clicked in the back of his mind and he reminded
himself to look more deeply into something one of his people had
told him just this morning.
Freidman eyed David
and asked, "And what of you? What do you hate, or should I say
who?"
"I try not to hate.
It leads to poor decisions."
Freidman scoffed at
the thought.
"It can also be a
great motivator."
"Yes, it can,"
replied David, "but look where it has gotten us."
David watched as
Freidman retreated back into the shadows, an expression of scornful
disagreement on his face. Watching him react the way he did, David
wished it was within his means to kill the man right this very
moment. He could probably do it and forfeit his own life, or spend
the rest of his days in an Israeli jail, being tortured and
otherwise treated like a subhuman, but suicide was not in his
plans. Maybe an opportunity would someday present itself, but for
now he would have to make his deal with the devil. It saddened him,
however, to know that Freidman would go on using his in
discriminant weapons of war to kill the people of Palestine. Ben
Freidman held much in common with the men David was meeting with
this evening. It was too bad he couldn't talk him into coming
along.
A black attaché case
appeared from under the table and then another.
Freidman placed them
both in front of David and said, "As you requested." He laid one of
the cases flat, opened it and spun it around.
"Each is lined with
five pounds of C-4 plastique. You requested it, so I assume you
know what you're doing."
There had been a
debate between the top counterterrorism people and Spielman late
into the evening yesterday. The question was, how would Spielman's
asset pull this off? Was he going to use the cases as a suicide
bomb, or was he going to somehow leave the meeting place and remote
detonate the devices? The debate was evenly divided with Spielman
saying it was impossible that Jabril Khatabi would commit suicide,
and the analysts saying that their money was on the Palestinian
turning himself into a martyr. This split among his own people led
Freidman to take several precautions.
David nodded and
examined the cases. They were basic black Samsonite attaché cases.
He would weigh them when he got back to his apartment, and had
little doubt that he would discover the Israelis had put more than
five pounds of explosives in each. David extended his hand.
"The
detonator?"
"As you requested."
Freidman handed over a black digital Casio watch.
"Press the split
reset button to arm the cases and then the start-stop button twice
within three seconds to detonate."
"Thank you." David
took the watch and studied it briefly before placing it inside the
first case.
"Just so you know,
Mr. Freidman, I plan on making more than one stop."
Freidman frowned, not
quite understanding what was meant by the remark.
David grinned.
"I am not so naive as
to think this watch is the only detonator. I also know that my life
means nothing to you. So don't get any ideas about detonating the
cases on your own. I will be led on a long journey tonight,
changing cars often, and stopping at many houses until I reach my
destination. Only I will know when the time is right, and although
I know it is impossible for you to trust a Palestinian, believe me
when I tell you that I want these men dead every bit as much as you
do."
Freidman accepted the
statement with a nod and said, "It's your operation. However you
want to handle it is up to you."
"Is there anything
else I need to know?"
Freidman hesitated.
He had many questions, but now was not the time. If this
Palestinian proved himself tonight and managed to survive the blast
they could sit down later. He shook his oversized head and said,
"No."
As David gathered the
cases he heard the tired voice of his friend who was still sitting,
observing the two strange allies.
"Why, Jabril?"
David turned to look
at Spielman. There seemed a genuine sadness in his eyes.
"You do not
know?"
"Maybe, but I would
like to hear it from you."
David nodded
thoughtfully. His mind rested upon the truth and he said, "These
men who I am going to see do not want peace, and as long as they
are the leaders of my people, we will only know hatred and death."
With that, David grabbed the cases and left the room.