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The waitress dropped off Rudin's orange juice and coffee. "Your food'll be up in a minute."

When the waitress left, Steveken got up and grabbed his paper. Rudin looked at him and asked, "Where are you going?"

"I'm a busy man, Albert," he pointed at his own eyes and then at Rudin, "but I'm going to have my eye on you." He started to walk away.

Rudin called after him, "Hey, you forgot to leave some money." Steveken smiled and said to himself, "No, I didn't."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

Tel Aviv, Saturday afternoon

Surly was probably the best word to describe Ben Freidman's mood. He'd just left his wife and was on his way into the office. He'd sent a katsa to Milan to look into the disappearance of Rosenthal and his people, and that trusted agent was back. Unfortunately, it sounded like she had little to report. As the armor-plated Mercedes raced through the suburb oframataviv, Freidman looked out the window at the ocean and wondered how in God's name three highly trained agents just disappear. The problem, Freidman knew, was that they didn't just disappear. There was only one logical explanation after this long: Donatella had killed them. This presented a challenging problem for the head of Mossad. Three kidons can only go missing for so long, and then people start asking questions.

The Mercedes turned away from the ocean and rocketed up a steep hill toward a bland six-story concrete building with antennae bristling from the roof. The driver had radioed ahead and the pop up barrier at the gate was down. The car raced through the entrance leaving the Uzi toting security personnel in a cloud of dust.

When Freidman reached his office he found the katsa that he'd sent to Milan waiting in his outer office by herself. Freidman rushed past her like a tank racing toward the front lines. Without a word, he waved for her to follow. When she entered his inner sanctum he closed the door and sat behind his desk. The katsa did not sit. She stood practically at attention in front of his desk. Freidman yanked open his top drawer and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

He puffed on the cigarette and offered the pack up to the woman. She declined with a shake of her head. "So, tell me' Tanya. What did you discover for me?"

The woman's posture and demeanor spoke of military training. She was small with dark features and wore no makeup."I found some things at the safe flat, but other than that, there was no sign of them." "And the woman I told you to check on?" Freidman ran one of his meaty hands along the top of his bald head.

"I called her office and they said she was out, so I took the opportunity to stop by in person. I pretended that we were old friends and that I was just passing through Milan for the day. I put on a big show about how disappointed I was and asked if I could leave a note. While I was leaving the note I asked where she was off to this time. They told me they didn't know. She called in abruptly on Friday to say she needed to take some personal time."

Freidman puffed on his cigarette and tried to piece things together. Friday would have been the day after Rosenthal was supposed to have hit her. She was on the run and Rosenthal, Yanta and Sunberg were all dead. Damn, she was good. Freidman chided himself for not sending more people, or better yet, doing it himself. Donatella would have trusted him. He could have got her to let her guard down and then taken her. The problem was he had rushed into it and now the mess was compounded.

"Did you check her flat?"

"Yeah. It was spotless. Nothing unusual or out of the ordinary."

Freidman thought for a while longer and finally said, "All right. Thank you for looking into this for me."

"No problem, sir. Am I excused?"

"Yes, but I want you to keep quiet about this entire matter."

"Yes, sir." The woman turned and left the office.

Freidman spun his chair around and looked out at the blue water of the Mediterranean. There would be an official investigation, one way or another, and it would look much better if he were the one to launch it. He would have to make Donatella out to be a psychotic who had betrayed Israel by free-lancing. He could even go the CIA and apologize for Donatella killing Peter Cameron. He could say that she had broken away and was doing free-lance work. Yes, he told himself, that was the path to take. Always mix fact with fiction for the most believable story.

Congressional Country Club, D. C.

Saturday morning

If HE WAS in town, and it was Saturday, he was doing one of two things: either playing golf or getting a massage. Since the temperature was still below freezing he had opted for the massage. When he pulled up the long drive of the club in his Jaguar XK8 coupe shortly after nine, he spotted three brave souls standing on the first tee. Huddled in stocking caps, they were a testament to golf's addictive nature.

Hank Clark had two overriding principles or philosophies in life. The first was to never allow any single thing or person to control him, and the second was to succeed at any cost. He could have adopted a puritan lifestyle and banned all vices from his life, but that would have been too easy. Clark had seen alcohol destroy his mother. He knew what it could do to a person, to a family, but instead of running from it, he was determined to conquer it. Clark 's competitive nature could not stand boredom, and it detested simplicity and complacency. Life was to be lived, not wasted cowering in a corner avoiding every vice as if it might jump up and drag you down into hell.

Clark took things on, but always in a well thought out way. He'd been an all-conference pitcher for the asu Sun Devils. That was when he learned to control his emotions and outthink an opponent. Where a football player is taught to get pumped up and attack the ball carrier, Clark learned to think clearly, get his competitor to expect one thing and then deliver something else. He was a master at blind-siding people without them ever knowing he had a hand in their demise.

As he lay facedown on the massage table, he was trying to figure out how to take these last few steps. He was so close, but this was where it would get tricky. The important thing to keep in mind was to let things happen. Not to force anything. The wheels were set in motion, the game was rigged and the odds were in his favor. All he needed was for Albert Rudin to make one last-ditch effort to derail the Kennedy nomination, and based on the conversation he'd had with Deputy Director Brown. Clark would know shortly. The package had been delivered last night and Clark knew that Steveken wouldn't disappoint him. By now Rudin had his grubby little hands on the info and he was probably close to having a coronary. With that satisfying thought Clark began to doze off. The waterfall music played softly in the background and Lou the masseur was kneading away at his legs. Life was good.

the DOOR flew open, thudded against the wall, and bounced back. Albert Rudin stood silhouetted in the light of the men's locker room staring into the relative darkness of massage room number two. "Hank! Are you in there?"

Clark, startled by the interruption, pulled from a deep sleep in the wink of a second, bolted up onto his elbows and growled, "What the fuck!"

"Hank, I need to talk to you immediately!" He stepped into the room.

Through unfocused, sleepy eyes Clark said, "Albert, what in the hell are you doing?"

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