The Spear

  ‘You would do well not to mock us, Mr Steadman.’ Goldblatt had mistaken the meaning behind the investigator’s smile. His voice was menacing and his grip on the gun was rigid.

  With a sigh, Steadman walked from the room. ‘Go to hell,’ he said mildly as he closed the door.

  4

  ‘It is becoming more and more obvious that a rift in public opinion is gradually widening, each individual going to the Right or Left as it suits them.’

  ‘We shall have friends who will help us in all the enemy countries.’

  Adolf Hitler

  Pope was waiting for Steadman when he returned to his house. The investigator had decided not to go back to the agency; he needed sleep and time to think.

  He was surprised there were no reporters loitering as he pushed the key into the latch and twisted. A crucifixion in a London street was just the story to whet their ghoulish appetites. He went straight to the kitchen, poured himself a large vodka, and carried it through to the lounge. He had taken off his jacket and slumped into an armchair before he noticed the overcoated figure sitting on the sofa.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Steadman. May I call you Harry?’ The voice was gruff but contained a mixture of politeness and amusement. The man looked powerful, but in a gross way – the muscles had long been covered by layers of fat.

  ‘My name is Nigel Pope.’ The big man leaned forward with effort and proffered an open wallet towards Steadman. ‘British Intelligence,’ he said, almost apologetically.

  Steadman barely glanced at the plastic-covered identity card in its frame of leather, wondering how they had got on to Mossad so quickly.

  The wallet was flicked shut and returned to an inside breast pocket of the man’s suit. ‘I let myself in, I hope you don’t mind.’

  Steadman settled resignedly back in his chair and sipped his vodka. ‘What has my partner’s death got to do with Security?’

  Pope gave the investigator a reproving look. ‘What has Israeli Intelligence got to do with Mrs Wyeth’s death?’

  ‘How did you find out about that?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police about your agency’s connections with Mossad?’ Pope countered.

  ‘We don’t have any connections with them! I only found out this morning that Maggie had accepted a commission from Mossad! I was going to tell the police that.’

  ‘A man named Goldblatt came to your office and saw you, in particular, a week ago. We know he is a Mossad agent.’

  ‘He wanted me to trace a missing agent, Baruch Kanaan. I turned the job down.’

  ‘Harry, let me tell you what we know of you. Perhaps that way we can avoid unnecessary time-wasting between us.’ Pope rose and stood with his back to the mantel, closed his eyes for a few moments, and then proceeded as though giving a lecture. ‘You were born in Chichester in 1940 and had a perfectly normal childhood until your father died when you were thirteen. Your mother took in another man a year later, whom she subsequently married. But you didn’t like him and he didn’t much like you. You left home at fifteen much to your mother’s distress and, lying about your age, worked in restaurants around London. You joined the Army in 1956 – perhaps the Suez Crisis aroused the fighting man in you – as a Junior soldier, and were trained in The Junior Infantrymen’s Company in Bassingbourn. You were soon transferred into a Junior Leader’s Regiment when it was realized you had some potential as an NCO but, although you later reached the rank of captain, there was something of a – what shall I say – “rebel” would be too romantic, “oddball” not quite correct. Let’s just say team spirit was not one of your finer points.’ Pope smiled and wagged a finger at Steadman. ‘Er, yes. Ironically enough, at the age of nineteen, you were diverted into the Corps of Royal Military Police – I believe the British Army enjoys ironies, don’t you? – and you became more disciplined. You spent some time in Germany and Hong Kong and, while you were there, your mother died after a long illness.’ He looked at the investigator as if for affirmation.

  Steadman nodded, wondering how long it had taken the fat man to memorize all this.

  ‘Let’s see, that would be in 1959?’

  ‘Sixty,’ Steadman corrected him.

  ‘Oh yes, you were twenty then. Four years of service behind you. In ’62 you married a German girl, but that lasted barely two years. It seemed she didn’t like Army life. Fortunately, there were no children. In ’65 you joined the Intelligence Corps and there, I think, you found your niche. Leastways, you seemed contented enough for a few years. You were loaned to Israeli Intelligence in 1970, more as a means of keeping an eye on their activities than anything else, I shouldn’t wonder, and you were with them for quite some time.’

  ‘Two years,’ Steadman informed the fat man needlessly.

  ‘Yes, two years. Just about. It was while you were there that you formed an attachment with one of their operatives, a young lady by the name of Lilla Kanaan – the sister of this missing Mossad agent, Baruch.’

  Attachment? The word was hardly adequate for a relationship that had run as deep as theirs.

  ‘Correct so far, eh?’ Pope enquired, a smile of satisfaction on his broad face. There was no answer from the investigator and the fat man went on. ‘Well, we know you were very close. You more or less moved into her apartment in Tel Aviv, in fact. You spent a lot of time with her and her family, who lived in Anabta, and they became the family you had been denied. I think Israeli Intelligence probably tried to persuade you to leave British Intelligence long before you witnessed the massacre at Lod Airport.’ He looked questioningly at Steadman, but still received no response. He shrugged his huge shoulders, then went on, ‘You were on your way back to England, recalled to London. Whether or not it was already on your mind to return to Israel I don’t know, but it seems the incident at Lod was the turning point for you. Within a few months, you had bought yourself out of the Army and were back in Israel as a member of Mossad, and in time to become part of the new “revenge squad” set up by Golda Meir at the encouragement of Major-General Zwi Zamir. The killing of their athletes at the Munich Olympics had set the final seal of approval on this new outward-going organization within Israeli Intelligence and they knew your background would help them in taking their war outside the boundaries of their own country.

  ‘You were not easily accepted by your Jewish colleagues, but your part in the attack on the Palestine Liberation Organization’s quarters in Beirut in April ’73 overcame their qualms, and you more than proved your physical abilities in the training camp at Caesarea.

  ‘You and your friend, Lilla, became part of the squad known as Heth. Your role was to set up a cover in other countries which would help the rest of the group to operate as a whole. You set up communications, rented apartments, arranged hotel reservations, provided hire cars and supplied any information concerning the local area your group was to operate in. As an Englishman, your cover was ideal, and Lilla easily passed as a European. You worked together as man and wife.

  ‘We’re fairly certain of three killings you were involved in. Abdel Hamid Shibi and Abdel Hadi Nakaa, two known PLO terrorists who were living in Rome, were blown to pieces in their Mercedes. The same happened to Mohammad Boudia, a key organizer of Black September; he was blown up in his Renault in Paris.

  ‘Oh, I don’t say you actually carried out the killings yourself, but you and your woman friend certainly smoothed the way for Aleph, the assassins of your little liquidation group. There are other “incidents” we’re not too sure of, but it seems it was a busy year for you.’

  Pope sat down again, as though his bulk had suddenly become too heavy for his legs. He looked thoughtfully at Steadman, then continued: ‘Apart from these missions, you were also involved in certain arms deals for the Israelis, working from Brussels and using your old Army connections for contacts. You were, indeed, valuable to The Institute – as the Central Institute for Information and Espionage is known – and to the Israeli Army itself. No wonder they were sad to see you go.’

&n
bsp; Still Steadman was silent. He wasn’t surprised that British Intelligence had this information – he was impressed more by Pope’s memory than knowledge – but he was growing increasingly apprehensive as to the purpose of the fat man’s visit.

  ‘It was in August that, for you, tragedy struck. Mossad was suffering from a loss of morale due to the killing of an innocent man in Lillehammer, Norway, and the capture by the authorities there of the group involved. Lilla Kanaan and yourself were not part of that misguided mission. You were both exhausted by now and your nerve needed rest. The Israelis thought they had finally located the man behind the Munich massacre, Ali Hassan Salemeh, but in fact the man they killed turned out to be a harmless waiter. In a way, it was unfortunate you hadn’t been included in the mission because you might have been safely tucked away in a Norwegian prison at that time. An explosion in your Brussels apartment injured you and killed the girl.’

  The memory no longer caused Steadman’s hands to shake uncontrollably, but it still seemed to drain him of any strength.

  Pope quickly went on: ‘When you had recovered – your health, that is – it seems you went on the rampage. At least, you appeared to be everywhere at once: Paris, Rome, Oslo, as well as Benghazi and Beirut, and in all these places, violence occurred prior to your departure. Even the Yom Kippur war in October of that year hardly seemed to contain your energies. But then, in January ’74, it all stopped.’

  Pope sat back in his chair and entwined his fingers across his huge paunch. He regarded Steadman quizzically. ‘Why did you leave Mossad at that point, Harry?’

  ‘I thought you knew all the answers,’ came the reply.

  ‘Not all, Harry. We have two conjectures: one, that you were suddenly sick of all the violence around you; two, that you didn’t wash your hands of Mossad at all.’

  Steadman raised his eyebrows.

  ‘No, you see, we think perhaps it was meant to look that way, severing all ties with Israel, returning to England and joining Mrs Wyeth’s enquiry agency. Perhaps it was all a new cover for you.’

  ‘For nearly five years?’ said Steadman incredulously.

  ‘“Sleeper” agents are valuable assets to any espionage organization. Adopt a role, carry on as a normal member of a community for as long as five, ten, fifteen years even, until the occasion to be used comes along. It’s far from rare in these uneasy times.’

  Steadman laughed aloud, but he felt little humour in the situation. ‘Why here? There’s no hostilities between Britain and Israel,’ he said.

  ‘No, there’s no open aggression. But Israel knows it has to spread its net, it has to fight its country’s battles in other countries. With worldwide terrorism as it is now, the Israelis have to meet it on neutral territory. They can’t afford to sit back and wait for it to hit their own country! Do you think I might have a cup of tea?’

  Steadman was taken aback by the sudden innocuous request.

  ‘Tea might do you some good too, Harry. It really is awfully early to be drinking vodka, you know,’ Pope said reprovingly.

  Steadman placed his glass on the carpet and rose from his seat. Bemused, he walked through to the kitchen.

  ‘What use to Mossad would I be in this country?’ he called back down the hallway as he waited for the kettle to boil. Pope’s massive body appeared in the small hallway, almost blocking it completely. He leaned his bulk against a wall.

  ‘Oh, keeping an eye on the scene,’ he said casually. ‘Maybe keeping an eye on the arms dealings, who’s trading with whom, that sort of thing. Perhaps doing a little trading yourself.’

  ‘Why would I need a cover for that?’

  ‘Convenience? It’s not unusual for a buyer to remain anonymous to the seller in such matters. You would be the link, the go-between.’

  Steadman poured boiling water into the teapot and stirred it vigorously.

  ‘Or maybe you were merely here to observe any terrorist activities,’ Pope suggested. ‘London, with its great foreign student population, makes a wonderful hive for such groups. Milk but no sugar for me, Harry. And do have one yourself. You look all in.’

  Steadman poured two cups and carried them down the hallway. Pope backed into the lounge before him.

  ‘It’s awfully cold in here.’ Pope took his seat again, shuddering inside his huge overcoat.

  ‘I’ve been away,’ Steadman said and added, ‘as you probably know.’ He went back into the kitchen and flicked down the switch that operated the central heating. ‘It’ll take a while to warm up,’ he said, returning to the lounge. He sat facing the fat man once again. ‘Do you really believe that?’ he asked Pope. ‘That I’m still with The Institute, I mean.’

  Pope gulped his tea and watched Steadman over the rim of his cup. After a few moments’ hesitation, he said, ‘Actually, no, I don’t. But that’s just a personal judgement, neither here nor there. As a matter of fact, I rather admire the Israelis’ cause, so it wouldn’t matter that much to me anyway. However, we are not going to allow the wars of other nations to be fought in our country. We’ve kept a close eye on you, Harry, ever since your return to England and nothing you’ve done has given us grounds for suspicion of any sort. Until last week, that is.’

  ‘Look, that was the first contact I’ve had with Mossad for nearly five years!’

  ‘Drink your tea, Harry, it’ll get cold.’

  Steadman drank until the cup was empty, then he put it aside. ‘Okay, Pope,’ he said abruptly. ‘My partner – who was also a close friend – has been murdered. I’ve been interrogated by the police for most of the night, I’ve had to organize the office, and now I’m beat. I just want to lie down and sleep. So let’s get to the point. What do you want from me?’

  ‘Why, Harry, you left out your visit to Mr Goldblatt this morning,’ Pope said smoothly.

  Steadman groaned aloud. ‘I wanted to beat his brains in! For getting Maggie killed!’

  ‘Of course, Harry.’

  ‘I told him I wasn’t interested last week. He hired Maggie in spite of that.’

  ‘Yes, we know. I spoke to your staff this morning myself after you’d left. Your secretary told me you practically threw our Mr Goldblatt out of your office last week. It could have been an act, but I don’t see that there would have been much point to it. I told you, Harry, I believe you – personally.’

  ‘Then what the hell do you want?’

  ‘Some help from you,’ the big man said mildly.

  ‘From me? How can I help you?’

  ‘Well, you want to find your partner’s murderer, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I bloody don’t!’

  Pope looked at Steadman in surprise. ‘Dear me, Harry! You don’t really mean that.’

  ‘Listen to me, Pope. I’ve seen enough killing for revenge to last me a lifetime. I’ve had enough. It’s all burned out of me. Can you understand that?’

  ‘But Mrs Wyeth was an innocent bystander. Surely you can’t let her death go unaccounted for?’

  ‘Can’t I?’

  ‘I think you’re trying to convince yourself you can. But it won’t work, Harry, I can assure you. You’ve had five years to get over your last bout of bloodletting, five years for that passion inside you to simmer. It’s still there, make no mistake.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  Potter smiled coldly. ‘It makes no difference. You’re still going to help us.’ Steadman shook his head, but the big man held up a hand. ‘Just hear me out first,’ he said to the investigator. ‘You said Goldblatt only wanted you to find out what had happened to their missing agent, Baruch Kanaan. Correct?’

  Steadman nodded.

  ‘And did they tell you his mission in England?’

  ‘He was to contact an arms dealer to place an order for weapons,’ Steadman said tiredly.

  ‘The arms dealer was Edward Gant.’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘Gant is a man we’ve been watching for a very long time now. Unfortunately, he’s influential, and not a man to intimid
ate.’

  ‘The Israelis think he’s supplying weapons to terrorists, as well as training them.’

  ‘Oh, he is. Has been for some years.’

  ‘You know that? And you’ve done nothing about it?’

  ‘Nothing we could do. Never been caught red-handed.’

  ‘You couldn’t have warned him not to?’

  Pope scoffed. ‘He would have laughed in our faces, Harry. He’s a very unusual man, our Mr Gant. The outrage last night is a mark of his manic confidence.’

  ‘You know he killed Maggie?’

  ‘No proof. We’ve put the lid on this murder for now, Harry. You won’t be bothered by police, or reporters for the moment.’

  ‘But how . . .’

  ‘It needed to be done – just for now. Publicity is the last thing we want at the moment. Apart from finding the missing agent, did Goldblatt want you to do any other investigating?’

  ‘He wanted me to dig up any evidence on Gant that I could.’

  ‘What sort of evidence?’

  ‘His dealings with terrorists.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  Steadman shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anything I could get on him, I suppose.’

  Pope took a deep breath, then quickly let the air escape. ‘I don’t think our friend Goldblatt has been entirely honest with you, Harry,’ he said. ‘True, the Israelis would like to provide proof to the British Government of Gant’s clandestine dealings, but their interest goes beyond that.’ The big man paused and drained the last of his cold tea. He placed the cup and saucer at his feet and dabbed at his moist lips with a neatly folded handkerchief from his overcoat pocket.

  ‘Are you aware of the growing revival of Nazism throughout the world, Harry? Perhaps not, because it goes under many different names and guises. You may imagine such fanaticsim could never become a threat again after the last World War, but you’d be wrong. It’s a cancer spreading throughout the world, a parasite feeding on political unrest, poverty – and terrorist activity. Do you know, for example, that an extreme right-wing group from Belgium known as the Flemish New Order are fighting with the UDA in Ireland? They are not alone. You’ll find other right-wing groups encouraging wars and becoming involved in them in many countries, supplying money, supplying arms.’