Angels Don't Die (Madeleine Toche Series Book 2) (4 page)

             
“I think so.  They would prefer to use him as a pawn, at least that's been their pattern in the past.  Things are very volatile in the region right now and nobody seems to be making any rash moves.”

             
“Can the government get him out?”

             
“I doubt they'd even admit he was there,” John said.

             
“All your sacrifice, all your time away from your family, and nobody can help.  The government just conveniently turns its back in the name of the national interest,” Karen said, her anger rising.

             
“Karen, I am not leaving him there.  I need help, though.”

             
“Who are we going to get to help?” Karen asked.

             
“Madeleine and Jack.  If pressed he won't admit it, but I think he's still active with MI6, and England still has strong ties to the Middle East.  The hardest thing to do will be to find out where Tracy is being held.  Once we do that, then we can go in and get him.”

             
“Let's go see Madeleine now. I have to do something; this uncertainty is tearing me apart,” Karen said tossing the dishtowel onto the hand railing of the old wooden porch.

             
“Ok, but before we go there’s something you should know. Remember what I told you about Madeleine in the war?” John said. “Frankly, I only touched the surface.”

             
“You make her sound like a one woman army,” Karen said.

             
“You have no idea, Karen. She’s worse, much worse,” John said.

             
“Then she’s exactly what we need,” Karen responded.

CHAPTER SIX

             
Jack and Madeleine sat on the broad front porch of their rustic creekside restaurant, taking a few minutes break escaping the heat of the kitchen between the lunch rush and the dinner service.  They had renovated a boarding house from the turn of the century, balancing its homey appeal with the necessities of a functioning restaurant.

  When Jack was home, he liked to hobnob with the customers and help out anyway he could.  The work was different from his job as an executive behind a desk.  As a regional manager he made a comfortable living, supplemented by the restaurant's success. It was a quiet life compared to his service in the war.  It had been a long time since he'd been summoned back to England, although he maintained ties with his old spy masters.  He likened it to being a member of the military reserve.

             
Madeleine watched as John and Karen parked.  Years of waiting and watching had given her an ability to read postures and expressions.  Something was wrong.  Perhaps it was an explanation for her premonition.

             
Standing, both Jack and Madeleine walked over to where John and Karen walked across the yard to meet them, trying to think of what to say to broach the subject.

             
“John, what’s wrong?”  Madeleine said reaching out and placing a hand on his shoulder.

             
“I have very bad news and need help.  I can only ask and will understand if you are unable or can't get involved.”

             
“Then we had better go sit down and discuss it,” Jack said plainly.  His face held no discernible expression. He was a man used to facing things head on.

             
Madeleine had been expecting some kind of bad news since her recent premonition.  She prayed it wasn't death and that something could be done to help the situation.  She led Karen and John through the main dining room of the restaurant and over to a smaller private room with a large table and side board for more intimate dinners.

             
The four sat down at one end of the table and John spoke.

             
“Tracy has been captured by the PLO.  As you know, he was on loan to the Mossad for training purposes and to prepare him for focusing his NSA activities on the Middle East.  I got this information from a very reliable source, who also tells me the government will wash its hands of the whole matter in the interest of national security.  I will have to get him out myself, but I don't know how.”

             
“Have you told Sam?”  Jack asked, referring to John and Karen’s younger son.

             
“No, and I’m not at all sure how to do it.  I will tell him, but I don’t want to scare him.  As you know, Tracy and Sam are close.  I’m not sure how Sam will react,” John answered.

             
“Finding Tracy will be the difficult part,” Madeleine said matter-of-factly.   “They will never keep him in the same place for a long period of time.  It's too easy to be discovered.  We’ll need to grab him shortly after he’s moved.”

             
“You said he was working for the Mossad,” Jack said.  “Any help there?”

             
“I just don't know yet.  Everything there is so tense; nobody wants to be the first to fire a shot in anger.  I can't imagine that they'd bend over backward for one American agent,” John said.

             
“No, their reputation is that they do not negotiate with terrorists.  Their agents know that and often fight to the death to avoid capture.  But given the gamesmanship that's going on over there, they won't be in a huge hurry to kill an American, and that will buy us some time,” Jack said.

             
“When do we leave?”  Madeleine asked.

             
“As soon as possible,” John answered.

             
“I’m ready right now,” Karen said.

             
“Karen, you can't go.  You’re not trained. Who's going to take care of Sam?” John said.

             
“John Trunce, you think you can stop me from coming you're wrong.  My uncle Bill can watch Sam.  I'm assuming we're going to do this as quickly as possible,” Karen said.

             
Madeleine caught John's eye and nodded her assent.  “John, you and Jack couldn't look less Arab or Israeli.  You’ll stand out and it’ll be hard for the two of you to move around without attracting attention.  I will be the person on the ground collecting information and sending the appropriate message to Tracy’s abductors.  With the right clothes, I’ll blend right in.  The rest of you have to remain behind the scenes until we’re ready for the final rescue mission.  We’ll need maps and a place to stay, preferably a safe house, so that we are inconspicuous. We’ll probably need a couple of safe houses.  We won’t want to stay in one location too long.  There's no telling how close the enemy might get.  One advantage we have is that both Jack and I have contacts in the region.  Many of the children I helped escape the Nazis are in Israel and keep in touch.  Also, there is one man I must try to find.  If he’s still there, his help would be invaluable.”

             
“Madeleine, he must be dead by now,” Jack said.

             
“I'm not so sure, perhaps.  But it's worth a try.”

             
“He was very active in Israel following the war.  But then my sources say he just fell off the radar screen and disappeared,” Jack added.

             
“If he lives, I'll find him,” Madeleine said.

             
“I don't doubt it for a minute,” Jack said, laying his hand on hers.

C
H
APTER SEVEN
             

             
Berthold Hartman sat comfortably in front of a fire, deep below Mossad headquarters in the heart of Jerusalem.  His office was several floors below an unremarkable office building designed not to attract attention.  The room was dark and mirrored his mood.  He sat in the light of a small lamp and stared into the fire.  Although he was nearing 80, he was the true leader of the Mossad, the Israeli secret police.  He should have retired years ago and passed the responsibility off to others, but recent tensions and the instability of the region had made it hard for him to let go.

             
He re-read the report concerning the captured American agent and then crumpled it up and threw it into the fireplace.  Something nagged him about the agent's name, although for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was.  It was either age or too many faces throughout the years that had started to rob him of his innate capacity for recall.

             
He mused that he would probably die at his desk. He had never taken a second wife and started a new family after losing his to the Nazis so many years ago in Germany.  Somehow, it wouldn't have felt right in the face of his personal torment at their death.  He had been a decorated German officer in the first war, but it had not protected them. They died, gassed with millions of others.  His anguish at their deaths had led him to unspeakable acts of terror.  He killed indiscriminately, including women and children when they were in the way of his revenge.  He struck at every target available.  He'd lost himself and would never fully find his way back.  All he could do was to help to create a strong Jewish state where families could protect themselves and be safe.  It was a penance he couldn't have been more serious about.

             
The war seemed long ago and the Jews, struggling to create a new Jewish state, had slowly rediscovered the normal routines of daily life.  Many had children and grandchildren now.  He often wondered what had become of the lone assassin he trained.  She had become so deadly that she became known as the Angel of Death.  He hadn’t seen her since the end of her training and the long siege of her mission.  He hoped she had found love and satisfaction with work and family after the war.

Hartmann remembered how he had planned for a career as an attorney.  That goal had been disrupted by the First World War, but he kept that promise to himself all those long years ago in the Kaiser's trench with the mud, the rats and the rain.  He had earned the Iron Cross 3 times, only to come home one day, after the Nazis rose to power, to find his medals stolen and his wife and daughters gone.  His loyalty to Germany meant nothing.  The memory of his trust in Germany tortured him and turned him into a monster.

  After the war, the establishment of a Jewish state was Hartmann’s life.  He devoted himself fully to it.  He would do anything to spare future generations of Jews the fate that had befallen his loved ones.  It had been a hard struggle, but he ruthlessly employed whatever tactics were necessary to accomplish his mission.  He and his fellow terrorists targeted everyone that got in their way, the British, Americans, the Palestinians, it didn’t matter.

             
A side door opened and a young woman entered, carrying a tray and a sheaf of papers under one arm. She moved gracefully, the lines of her body indicating hard training and field work.  She was no secretary. 

             
“Just in time, I was getting hungry.  What’s on the menu today?” Hartmann said with affection, momentarily escaping the darkness of his thoughts.

             
“Well, it looks good enough.  I know the vegetables come from one of the kibbutzim, the chicken too.”

             
“I never got to have that life, Ariel,” Hartmann mused, referring to the Israel communal farms.

             
“Sir, I worked on one for several summers and I've smelled enough manure for three lifetimes,” Ariel said.

             
“So it's the Mossad for you then?  Who knows, you might get to worry in front of this fire someday,” Hartmann said kindly, pulling a side table over towards his seat.

             
“I can't think of more important work,” Ariel answered, placing the tray next to him.

             
“Is there anything new in that pile of reports?” Hartmann said, gesturing to the documents under Ariel’s arm.

             
“There’s a little more information about the American agent.  I met him a couple of times socially when he was with Rachel.  I hate to think of him in the hands of the PLO,” Ariel said.

             
“We can't move yet, and I expect they'll make some kind of demand, eventually or tip their hand.  When they do we’ll be ready.  The agent was in our care and in our country.  Under normal circumstances we would have reacted already,” Hartmann replied.

             
“I agree, there’s no negotiating with terrorists.  But they do understand an eye for an eye,” Ariel said.

             
“It may be up to the Americans to decide.  I'd be happy to step aside and let them get their man,” Hartmann said.

             
“I'm not so sure the Russians would be too keen on that idea,” Ariel responded.

             
“Nothing’s changed since the war.  The Americans and the Russians keep playing the same game, while the rest of us sit by and wait to be called upon,” Hartmann said. He reached over and took Ariel’s hand in his. “I meant to tell you, I'm very sorry about Rachel.  I know she was your friend.  She was a good agent and loved her country.”