Goldblatt nodded. ‘Yes, he did. He also said you probably would not help us. But you did before; you left the British Army to join us. Perhaps you will find that sympathy for our cause once again.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I had a stronger reason then.’
‘Lilla Kanaan?’
Her name, after so many years, still caused the old grief to flood through him, its intensity almost causing a panic within him. He said nothing.
‘Listen to me first, then if you still will not help us, so be it. We’ll find other ways.’
Goldblatt took Steadman’s silence as approval for him to go on. ‘Everyone is well aware of the escalation of terrorism throughout the world. At first, we Israelis defended our country from the inside but, as you well know, we were forced to fight our war beyond our own boundaries. We did not wish it, but we had no choice . . .’
Steadman’s thoughts were racing back to that blood-filled night, Tuesday, 30th May, 1972. Lod International Airport. He and Lilla had been waiting for the flight that would take him back to England, his assignment in the Middle East over – his orders now to return to his regiment. Gunshots had startled them from the sadness of parting, and exploding grenades had made him hurl Lilla to the floor and push her beneath a row of seats. When he saw the three Japanese with their Kalashnikov carbines and laden with hand grenades, he covered her body with his, pulling a discarded suitcase in front of them as feeble protection against the hail of bullets and shrapnel. People were screaming, running in terror from the lethal fire; others threw themselves to the floor, too frightened to move, praying they would be spared. Steadman had looked up to see if there was any way to reach the gunmen and he had seen a grenade explode in the hand of one of the Japanese, tearing off the terrorist’s head.
A second died as he carelessly strayed into his companion’s line of fire. The third then seemed to lose his nerve and had begun to run; Steadman saw him disappear under a crush of border police and civilian police officers.
He pulled Lilla to him and they had sat there stunned at the violence and the carnage it had caused. The wailing began and the hall came alive with the dying.
Twenty-eight people had been slaughtered, most of them innocent Puerto Rican pilgrims, and seventy had been wounded. The surviving terrorist, Kozo Okamoto, later confessed he was a member of the Japanese Red Army and had been trained for the suicide mission by the Black September group.
Three months later, Steadman had returned to Israel and the Central Institute for Information and Espionage, no longer as an adviser on loan from British Military Intelligence, but as a member of the organization . . .
‘. . . It was not long before we realized we were not fighting just one terrorist group but many.’ Steadman’s attention was drawn back to Goldblatt. ‘In Ireland, the IRA; in Spain, the Basque; in South America, the Tupamaros; in Turkey, the Turkish Liberation Army; in Japan, the Red Army; in West Germany, the Baader-Meinhof. All are now aiding and abetting each other, a terrorist alliance brought about by the Russian KGB. They have even narrowed the split between the Arab factions, the PFLP and PLO. But the people we least expected to give succour to our enemies were the British.’
Steadman raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘The British? How are we helping such people?’ he asked.
‘By supplying them with arms; new, advanced weapons. Training the terrorists to use them effectively.’
‘Nonsense. Sure, the Middle East and Iran are big customers of the British Government itself, but it doesn’t deal with terrorist groups. Nor does it allow private armament companies to. Licences are strictly controlled.’
Goldblatt smiled without humour. ‘Come now, Mr Steadman. As an ex-military man and as one who has negotiated the sale of arms to Israel yourself, you know just how far the arms business can be “strictly controlled”.’ He drew out the last two words scornfully. ‘It’s no longer just Russian weapons we find in the hands of our assassins. There are certain highly sophisticated weapons we have traced back to your country.’
‘They may have been paid for and passed on by another source.’
‘Having worked for Israeli Intelligence yourself, do you doubt our efficiency in these matters?’
Steadman had to shake his head, for he knew Israel had one of the most respected and feared Intelligence organizations in the world. On his return to that country he had joined Mossad, which was responsible for external Intelligence, and he soon appreciated the strength of Shin Beth, which was responsible for internal security and counter-espionage. No, he didn’t doubt their efficiency.
‘We know for certain that the PLO bought direct from a British company. Unfortunately, our source of information died under interrogation so we have no proof, no first-person confession.’
Steadman also knew how ruthless Israeli interrogations could be and shuddered inwardly.
‘What do you know of Edward Gant?’ the Mossad agent asked.
‘Gant? You think he’s the supplier?’
Goldblatt nodded.
‘He’s not one of the big dealers, but his weapons are of the sophisticated kind. Did your informant tell you it was him?’
‘No, our informant didn’t know. We believed him.’
I’ll bet you did, Steadman thought. Torture has a way of making people want to be honest. ‘So what makes you think he’s your man?’ he said.
‘Let’s just say several roads lead back to him. Now, what do you know of him?’
‘Not much – he keeps out of the limelight. I know he’s wealthy, respectable and, as I said, deals in the sale of arms on a small scale. He seems to move in high circles.’
‘Appeared on the scene in the United States around the late fifties,’ Goldblatt continued. ‘His record shows he was an emigrant from Canada. He married a wealthy American widow and began his activity in the armament field, his innovations in light weaponry outstanding at that time. His wife’s connections and money helped him approach top-ranking Army personnel as well as the odd senator here and there, and he soon became a steady supplier to the US forces. He seemed to have some influence himself at the time, even though he was new to the country, and he was by no means a poor immigrant. He came to England in 1963 after his wife’s death and opened up a weapons development plant here, warding off any state control when he became successful. He’s now a considerable force in the industry and, like many arms dealers, has kept away from publicity – until recently, that is.
‘By all accounts, he is a remarkable man, hardly looking his age, extremely fit, shrewd and quite ruthless in business. Three weeks ago, one of our agents investigating Edward Gant’s activities in this country disappeared. We have not heard from him since.’
The last words were made to sound as though they were part of the arms dealer’s biography. Steadman leaned forward across the desk. ‘You want me to find your man,’ he said as a statement.
Goldblatt nodded.
‘And if I can dig up some evidence against Gant at the same time, that would be useful.’
‘Yes. Very.’
‘And what would you do with that evidence?’
‘Turn it over to your government, of course.’
Steadman sat back in his chair and stared coldly into the Mossad agent’s eyes. ‘Goodbye, Mr Goldblatt.’
The Israeli sighed deeply. ‘Do you have no feelings for us any more?’
‘None.’
‘What changed you? What turned you against us?’
‘Zwi Zamir knows. I’m sure he told you.’
‘Did Lilla’s death mean nothing to you?’
Steadman’s hands clenched into fists on the desk-top. ‘It meant everything to me,’ he said evenly.
‘And would her brother’s death mean anything?’
Puzzlement showed in the investigator’s eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Her brother, Baruch, was the agent sent in to contact Gant.’
Baruch. Young. Anxious to serve his country. Even more so after the death of Lilla.
They’d used him, just as they’d used his sister. Just as they used up the lives of so many of their young.
‘I had no idea he’d joined the Institute.’
‘Our country needs such fine young men to survive, Mr Steadman. Baruch Kanaan was conscripted into the Air Force and flew helicopter missions into enemy territory, giving support to GHQ assault groups on the ground, covering their retreat from Arab strongholds. I understand you, yourself, were recipient of such cover on several occasions when you were with us.’
Steadman nodded and thought of the nightmare raids into Beirut, the hasty retreats through hostile streets, silenced parabellums, hot from use, burning their hands. The welcoming sound of rotor blades, the huge dragonflies dropping from the night sky with guns blazing to disrupt enemy pursuit. Grenades and spikes dropped into the roads to thwart enemy vehicles. It all seemed a long time ago.
‘Baruch eventually became a member of the GHQ himself,’ Goldblatt continued, and allowed himself a brief smile. ‘He walked to Petra twice.’
Steadman raised his eyebrows. The GHQ was a secret paramilitary outfit of the Israeli Defence Forces, its members specially chosen officers or sergeants from other units, an ability to fight in small groups against heavy odds an essential requirement. One of the initiation rites into the unit was a voluntary trip by foot from the Israeli border, across a stretch of the Jordanian desert to the abandoned city of Petra, only cunning and endurance keeping the lone traveller out of the hands of the prowling Bedouin battalion guarding the area. Some initiates declined to take the trip and these were considered unfit for future highly dangerous or solitary missions, while many others who accepted the challenge were never seen again. ‘He must be very special,’ the investigator said.
‘Very special,’ the Israeli agreed. ‘It was not long before he became an agent for Mossad. He speaks French, German and his English is particularly good. He is cool and resourceful under pressure, and quite ruthless where our enemies are concerned. He also has an excellent knowledge of the armaments market, much of it learned from you, I gather.’
‘Baruch liked to know everything about everything.’
‘You were a good teacher. Baruch Kanaan was chosen for this mission because of these qualities and because his face was unknown to our enemies. He hoped to contact you, by the way, to enlist your help. We forbade it. We did not want to involve you in any way, but now I am afraid we have little choice.’
‘What was his cover?’
‘He contacted Gant as a representative of our government. He was to buy arms for us.’
‘And?’
‘He made the contact and reported back that Gant was interested. Then we heard no more from him. We learned he had checked out of his hotel and left no forwarding address. Baruch left no message for us, nor did he try to contact any of our “safe” houses. He just disappeared.’
‘Three weeks ago.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing since?’
‘Nothing.’
It was Steadman’s turn to sigh. ‘Just how did you expect me to find him?’
‘You could approach Gant in the same way, as a buyer for a Middle East power. You would not have to reveal your employer’s identity at first – not until negotiations were underway.’
‘But Baruch let Gant know he was working for Israel.’
‘Yes. A mistake, we think.’
Steadman smiled wryly. ‘Some mistake. If Gant is supplying arms to Arab terrorists, he may have some sympathy for their cause.’
‘It is not unusual for an arms dealer to supply both sides in a war.’
‘No. It can be an embarrassment sometimes though.’
‘An embarrassed arms dealer? An amusing thought.’ Goldblatt’s smile was cynical. ‘However, our point was this: if Gant showed any reluctance to deal with us, that would at least give some indication our information was correct.’
‘Indicate, but hardly prove.’
‘No, but that would only have been our first step. Surveillance, enquiries, bribery here and there would have confirmed the rest. Proof would have followed.’
‘And if it hadn’t? If you couldn’t get the proof to hand to my government, what then? Eliminate Gant?’
‘Probably.’ There was no hesitation.
‘But you can’t fight your war in this country.’ Steadman’s anger was rising again.
‘We have no choice.’
‘I have. I won’t help you.’
‘We are not asking you to take any risks, Mr Steadman. We merely want you to get close to Gant, to find out if Baruch saw him again. If not, then trace Baruch’s movements from the last time he contacted us. That’s all we ask: a straightforward investigator’s commission. No involvement with Mossad.’
‘Why don’t you go to the police?’
‘That could prove rather embarrassing. Besides, we have no faith in the co-operation of foreign governments in Israeli affairs. You remember how France let the assassin Abu Daoud go free after arresting him in Paris in 1977? The French were worried that their sale of two hundred Mirage jets to Egypt would fall through because of it. No, justice is governed by self-interest in all countries. I think your government would not be too concerned with the whereabouts of one missing Israeli spy.’
‘Then why not use another private investigator? Why me?’
‘Because of your connections. You were with the military, you dealt in arms. You negotiated deals for arms for Israel in the past, and there is no reason why you should not be believed as a freelance now. You have the perfect cover; and you also know Baruch. You are suited for the job in every way.’
‘Except one.’
‘And that is?’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘Not even for Baruch’s sake?’
‘No.’
There was disgust in Goldblatt’s eyes now. ‘Will nothing I say persuade you?’
‘Nothing. Find another agency, or do your own dirty work.’
The Mossad agent stood and looked coldly down at Steadman. ‘You’ve lost your beliefs,’ he said.
‘No, they’re just different now.’ Steadman sat back in his chair, his face expressionless. ‘I hope you find Baruch.’
With a shake of his head, Goldblatt turned and walked to the door. He stood there as if to say something further, then walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Steadman sighed deeply and drummed his fingers on the desk-top. The past never wants to let go, he mused. He wondered about Lilla’s younger brother, Baruch: always smiling, so easily excited, yet so intense when conversation turned to the political struggles of his nation. Had he been sacrificed now like his sister, all in the cause of his country’s fight for freedom? The gentle tap at the door was a welcome relief from his brooding thoughts.
‘Hello, Harry. That sounded heavy.’ Maggie Wyeth’s head peered round the door.
He grinned. ‘Listening at keyholes again?’
Maggie entered the room and perched herself on the corner of his desk. Forty, elegant, she was attractive in the special way older women can be. A certain firmness in her lips and jawline gave her a slightly intimidating aura, and Steadman had frequently seen this turned to good use in many of the cases they had handled. Her husband had owned the agency and Maggie had helped run it, until a heart attack had killed him five years before. She had continued to run the business, having learned much from her late husband, but the prejudices of clients against a woman handling their affairs were difficult to overcome. Although not unusual for a woman to be a private investigator, she soon realized the agency needed a masculine influence and image, so ‘feelers’ were put out for the right man. Steadman had just returned to England having resigned from Mossad, and a mutual acquaintance had brought the two together. They were cautious of each other at first, but a reciprocal respect had soon grown between them. They had both lost something, but they were determined not to wallow in self-pity. They recognized the need in each other.
After a three-month trial, Steadman bought himself in as a full partner and the agency’s client list had steadily begun to grow again. It was inevitable their relationship should develop beyond that of a business partnership, but their affair was brief, both realizing they could only offer each other a shallow comfort. There was genuine fondness between them, but love was something they’d used up on others. It had lasted for three months, then, by mutual consent, they’d reverted to their business relationship, although a strong bond of friendship had grown between them.
Steadman glanced appreciatively at the smooth line of Maggie’s thigh and felt some of the tension drain from him. They hadn’t seen each other for a week and both found it good to be in contact again.
‘Who was he?’ Maggie asked.
‘A voice from the past, you could say,’ Steadman replied casually.
‘From Israel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mossad?’ She knew of Steadman’s past associations.
He nodded.
‘Do they want you to work for them again?’
‘In a way. They wanted to commission the agency to find a man.’
‘He wouldn’t speak to me last week when you were away.’
‘I have special connections, it seems.’
‘But you didn’t take the job on.’
‘No. I want nothing to do with them.’
‘But if it was just a straightforward case we could have handled it. We’re not that busy that we can turn down work.’
Steadman frowned. ‘With Mossad it’s never that straightforward. We don’t need it.’
‘We could have discussed it first.’ Maggie’s tone was soft, but he recognized the firmness behind it. ‘We could have given it to Sexton, or I could have handled it.’
‘I told you, Maggie, they wanted me. Let’s drop it, eh?’
This time Maggie recognized the firmness in his tone.
‘Sorry, Harry. It’s the businesswoman in me. I hate to let one get away.’
‘Okay.’ He smiled and patted her thigh. ‘Now, what’s been happening?’
‘Well, we’ve still got a few cases on the go, nothing that Sexton and Steve can’t handle, though. Sexton has a couple of writs to serve this week although we’ll probably let Steve have a go at one of them – he can run faster than Sexton. I’m in court giving evidence tomorrow and Thursday, and a client I’ve just seen this morning wants to investigate pilfering in his chain of hardware stores. He’s losing several hundred a week and suspects it’s an organized ring working in his shops.’