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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 kidon, 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 indiscriminant 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?”
