street on the far side of the block, obscured the view.
The backs of these two buildings were separated by a rectangular patch of sand where an old fig tree struggled for existence. The rectangle was shut in by the windowless flanks of adjoining buildings. Near the fig tree an old wheelbarrow, a decaying oil drum and the rusted remains of a bicycle lay in the yard. The only way into the concrete building was across the yard, and the only access to the yard was through a steel door in the back of the red-brick building.Anyone making the journey did so through a complicated series of internal passages and locked steel doors overseered by security guards.
Few but the initiated knew that beneath the concrete building there was an underground complex, bomb and radiation proof, with its own generators, life support and communications systems. It was the Headquarters of Israeli Intelligence.
In an office on the second floor two men sat talking on opposite sides of a desk. The elder had crew-cut grey hair and a lean weather-tanned face. The younger was sleek and round. His ingenuous features and enquiring eyes suggested a mildness which did not belong. He was second-in-command to the man to whom he was listening, General Jakob Kahn, Director of Israeli Intelligence. The general had distinguished himself as a brigade commander in the Five-Day War, and as a divisional commander in the October War. On both occasions the younger man, Bar Mordecai, had been on his staff.
‘We do know,’ said Kahn, ‘that our forces had nothing to do with the attack on Shed 27. We did not know – and I accept responsibility for this – that the Pluton consignment had already left France.’
Mordecai nodded in agreement. ‘Nor did we know that they would get nuclear warheads with the first delivery – or at all. Kuper reported they’d get conventional explosive warheads, at least until they’d completed familiarization training. Even then, he said there was doubt in the French Cabinet about supplying nuke warheads unless we deployed ours.’
Jakob Kahn shifted the cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘In fairness to Kuper he has a hell of a job in Paris. Security at Aerospatiale and the Ministry is exceptionally tight. In the circumstances he’s doing well.’
‘Of course, I agree.’ In a characteristic gesture Mordecai stroked his sleek head of hair as if he were brushing it with his hand, ‘But what do you make of the Syrian allegation that the attack on the shed was an Israeli operation? Weknow it wasn’t. So what’s behind it? Salamander confirms there was an attack. Five Syrian officers were killed. And the sixth body? Who was he? We know he wasn’t an Israeli.’
Kahn waved his cheroot in wide circles. ‘There are two possibilities. First, the whole thing may have been set up by the Syrians themselves.’
‘Isn’t that stretching it a bit far? Killing five of their own officers. Hi-jacking their own equipment.’
‘Of course. But what could be more convincing? It would be worth sacrificing six of your own men if the stakes were high enough. And they are.’
‘Six?’
‘Yes. For the purpose of this hypothesis the dead body was another Syrian officer. This time with an Israeli identity disc, phoney Israeli documents in his pocket, and a face slashed beyond recognition. That’s an easy set-up.’
‘Motive, Jakob?’ Mordecai was pretty sure he knew the answer but he liked flying kites. Kahn would shoot them down.
‘To throw a spanner in Kissinger’s works. To destroy the détente he’s trying to set up between Israel and Egypt. The Syrians suspect Kissinger’s is a wedge-driving operation.’ Kahn stubbed out the cheroot, took another from the packet on his desk. ‘Filthy habit,’ he said. ‘But I enjoy them.’
Mordecai shook his head disapprovingly. ‘It’ll kill you before the Arabs do, Jakob. You mentioned two possibilities. What was the other?’
‘Yes. It’s the more probable. Who in
The backs of these two buildings were separated by a rectangular patch of sand where an old fig tree struggled for existence. The rectangle was shut in by the windowless flanks of adjoining buildings. Near the fig tree an old wheelbarrow, a decaying oil drum and the rusted remains of a bicycle lay in the yard. The only way into the concrete building was across the yard, and the only access to the yard was through a steel door in the back of the red-brick building.Anyone making the journey did so through a complicated series of internal passages and locked steel doors overseered by security guards.
Few but the initiated knew that beneath the concrete building there was an underground complex, bomb and radiation proof, with its own generators, life support and communications systems. It was the Headquarters of Israeli Intelligence.
In an office on the second floor two men sat talking on opposite sides of a desk. The elder had crew-cut grey hair and a lean weather-tanned face. The younger was sleek and round. His ingenuous features and enquiring eyes suggested a mildness which did not belong. He was second-in-command to the man to whom he was listening, General Jakob Kahn, Director of Israeli Intelligence. The general had distinguished himself as a brigade commander in the Five-Day War, and as a divisional commander in the October War. On both occasions the younger man, Bar Mordecai, had been on his staff.
‘We do know,’ said Kahn, ‘that our forces had nothing to do with the attack on Shed 27. We did not know – and I accept responsibility for this – that the Pluton consignment had already left France.’
Mordecai nodded in agreement. ‘Nor did we know that they would get nuclear warheads with the first delivery – or at all. Kuper reported they’d get conventional explosive warheads, at least until they’d completed familiarization training. Even then, he said there was doubt in the French Cabinet about supplying nuke warheads unless we deployed ours.’
Jakob Kahn shifted the cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘In fairness to Kuper he has a hell of a job in Paris. Security at Aerospatiale and the Ministry is exceptionally tight. In the circumstances he’s doing well.’
‘Of course, I agree.’ In a characteristic gesture Mordecai stroked his sleek head of hair as if he were brushing it with his hand, ‘But what do you make of the Syrian allegation that the attack on the shed was an Israeli operation? Weknow it wasn’t. So what’s behind it? Salamander confirms there was an attack. Five Syrian officers were killed. And the sixth body? Who was he? We know he wasn’t an Israeli.’
Kahn waved his cheroot in wide circles. ‘There are two possibilities. First, the whole thing may have been set up by the Syrians themselves.’
‘Isn’t that stretching it a bit far? Killing five of their own officers. Hi-jacking their own equipment.’
‘Of course. But what could be more convincing? It would be worth sacrificing six of your own men if the stakes were high enough. And they are.’
‘Six?’
‘Yes. For the purpose of this hypothesis the dead body was another Syrian officer. This time with an Israeli identity disc, phoney Israeli documents in his pocket, and a face slashed beyond recognition. That’s an easy set-up.’
‘Motive, Jakob?’ Mordecai was pretty sure he knew the answer but he liked flying kites. Kahn would shoot them down.
‘To throw a spanner in Kissinger’s works. To destroy the détente he’s trying to set up between Israel and Egypt. The Syrians suspect Kissinger’s is a wedge-driving operation.’ Kahn stubbed out the cheroot, took another from the packet on his desk. ‘Filthy habit,’ he said. ‘But I enjoy them.’
Mordecai shook his head disapprovingly. ‘It’ll kill you before the Arabs do, Jakob. You mentioned two possibilities. What was the other?’
‘Yes. It’s the more probable. Who in
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