Dead Line (35 page)

The pain was agonising. Jana dropped both hands from the woman’s throat and stumbled backwards, then fell down onto the floor of the courtyard, completely dazed. She struggled to get up, but a pair of arms was holding her down - a man’s arms, strong enough to turn her round until she was pinned face-down on the paving.

Jana could hear but not see the other woman gasping for air. ‘Thanks, Dave,’ the woman wheezed.

‘You were doing all right without me, Peggy,’ said the man as he tightened his grip on Jana’s arms. ‘Who the hell taught you how to give a Glasgow kiss?’

FIFTY-SIX

Ahead of her the water in the lake lay like a dark smear. The banks were low and grassy, and at the end nearest the clubhouse where the dinner would later be held was a large square of closely mown lawn - on every other day it was one of the tees of the pitch and putt course. It was here that the delegations would stand to watch the gun dog display. Two trestle tables had been set up, covered by white tablecloths. Bottles of soft drinks, fruit juice, and sparkling water sat next to a small army of glasses; discreetly in one corner stood half a dozen bottles of white wine.

When Liz arrived the dog handler was already there, holding two slim black Labradors on leads, with the German pointer sitting motionless next to her. The President of Syria was talking on his mobile phone as he walked towards the tee, accompanied by his London ambassador and surrounded by bodyguards. As the Israelis arrived, he snapped his phone shut and turned towards the Israeli Prime Minister, grinning broadly. At least that’s going well, thought Liz.

‘Tell me,’ said Liz to the dog handler, ‘are you the only person who’s been with these dogs today?’

‘That’s right. They get far too excited if I let strangers near them on a show day.’

Her reply was firm, but Liz wasn’t satisfied and she asked again, ‘So you are absolutely the only person to have been in contact with the dogs?’

‘Yes. I said so,’ she replied, with a flash of irritation. But then she paused. ‘Well, except for one of the foreign girls in the hotel. Her mother’s got a German pointer back home and she misses him, so she likes to come and see Kreuzer. I let her help me feed him. Why, is something wrong?’

‘I hope not,’ said Liz frowning. ‘What’s the girl’s name?’

‘I don’t know,’ the woman replied. ‘I’ve never asked her.’

I can guess, thought Liz, as she moved back through the people now crowding round the tables, though I hope I’m wrong. She took up a position on a slight incline just below the road and as the delegates moved closer to the lake, Dave joined her. They stood together, watching intently.

The handler clapped her hands and the visitors grew silent. She explained in a loud, cheerful voice that the two Labradors she held on their leads were going to demonstrate their prowess at literally pulling the water off a duck’s back. Liz noticed the Syrian President laughing appreciatively, showing his command of English - or Scottish, she thought, for the woman had the musical accent of Scotland’s west coast.

In the middle of the lake, some ten yards from its small island, a young man sat in a small rowing boat. At the handler’s signal, he threw two life-sized mallard duck decoys into the water. They landed with a splash, then turned upright and bobbed on the surface.

Unleashing both dogs, the handler blew her whistle in a short soprano burst, and the pair sprang forward, entering the water without hesitation, swimming like happy kids at a summer camp. As they neared the rowing boat, they suddenly altered their course, homing in on the pair of plastic ducks. Each dog seized one by the tail, then together they turned and began the trip back to shore, the rowing boat following them in. As they reached shallow water they slowed down, and, back on dry land, they ran to the handler, placing the decoys gently at her feet. On the green tee the audience clapped politely. The Syrian President seemed pleased; the Israeli Prime Minister, anxious until then, now looked pleased as well.

When the applause died down, the handler faced the crowd again. ‘The next display is something different - it’s to demonstrate how the nose can be more important than the eyes for dogs. I’ve hidden another decoy on that island.’ She pointed to the lake. ‘It’s completely invisible. But Kreuzer here is going to find it.’

She snapped her fingers at the brown and white pointer. At once he trotted to the water’s edge and waded straight in.

Suddenly Liz’s anxiety increased. Something about the trainer’s remarks was bothering her. What exactly was it that Kreuzer was trying to find? She made her way quickly through the spectators until she stood next to the handler. Kreuzer was moving smoothly through the ruffled water of the little lake - not even really a lake, thought Liz; not much more than a pond.

‘So Kreuzer will find your decoy purely by smell.’

‘Yes. He’s got the most marvellous nose. On a grouse moor you often can’t see where the bird drops, because of the heather, but with a dog like this it doesn’t matter. The Israelis told me that they thought the Syrian President would be particularly interested - it seems he shoots a lot.’

Liz watched as the dog reached the island and scrambled up onto the low clumps of marsh grass. It began circling, its nose on the ground, and soon it was heading for the solitary tree.

‘Oh no,’ the handler groaned.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘He’s gone right past it. I buried it about three feet from the bank where he got out of the water. What’s wrong with him?’

But it was clear that Kreuzer was on the scent of something; as he approached the tree his ears pricked up and he was sniffing deeply, rapidly. Suddenly he stopped, stuck his nose deep into the grass and started tugging fiercely with his teeth, once, twice, and then suddenly he raised his head, and in his mouth, gripped firmly but gently in his jaws, was a small package. It was wrapped in some sort of green cloth, and looked rather like a roll of silver cutlery, bound neatly in the middle with a cloth tie.

Liz was thinking hard about Jana - what could she have done? Given the dog another scent. But why? And then she remembered. Kollek’s hair - Naomi from the Israeli Embassy had said that his hair had been inexplicably wet that evening when he had gone off on his own. He’d been here! Of course. It was Kollek who had chosen this entertainment. He’d been here and he’d swum out to the island to plant his own decoy for the dog. But his would be deadly.

‘He’s found something else!’ the handler exclaimed.

‘What if he’s been given another scent? After the one you gave him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just what I said,’ Liz snapped. ‘If you gave him a scent, but then someone else gave him another scent, would he go for the second one?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s the last scent he’ll track. But I don’t see—’

‘Can you stop the dog?’ Liz interrupted. Kreuzer had re-entered the water, and was paddling back, head held high to keep the package in its jaws above the surface.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Can you keep the dog from coming here? Tell me! Quick! Can you do it?’ No time now to get a marksman to shoot the dog. The handler looked baffled but obeyed. She put two fingers in her mouth and produced a high, braying whistle. The dog stopped swimming, lifting its head, the cloth package still safely in its jaws. But then it started off again, heading steadily back to shore.

‘Do it again,’ said Liz. ‘Please. Quick. Stop him.’

Again the hand went up to the woman’s mouth, and again came a high-pitched whistle, even louder. This time the dog stopped, with a questioning look in its eyes. The handler gave a short blast on her whistle, and suddenly the dog swivelled like a seal in the water and began paddling slowly back towards the island. Liz held her breath while the handler looked at her angrily. ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘Why are we doing this?’

She suddenly went quiet as Liz raised a warning hand; she was in no mood to be challenged, not until she knew it was safe and that she had been wrong. She would be happy then - more than happy - to take whatever criticism came her way.

The dog reached the island and pulled itself up onto the bank, though more slowly than before - Kreuzer was tired. He panted like a swimmer who’d crossed the Channel, yet he still held the package tightly in his mouth as he vigorously shook the water from his coat. If there was anything wrong with that package we’d know by now, thought Liz, as water sprayed from the dog’s taut skin.

Suddenly the ground shook and simultaneously Liz heard the deafening noise of an explosion. On the island, a mound of earth lifted straight into the air and separated into thousands of tiny pieces that fell slowly into the lake, followed by an enormous cloud of dust.

The shock wave rolled over the spectators, rocking Liz back onto her heels as she winced from the sudden pain in both her ears. On the lake, the water rose up like a geyser, momentarily obscuring all sight of the island. When the air cleared at last, a crater the size of a large lorry had been dug out of the island’s earth. Of Kreuzer there was no sign.

Next to Liz, the dog handler was staring white-faced at the remains of the island. Behind her, there was complete silence among the spectators. Liz looked back, but they were all standing just as they had been; no one seemed to have been hurt. Fortunately, they had all been far enough away.

The silence was broken by the Syrian President. Turning to the Israeli Prime Minister and smiling broadly, he clapped his hands together in apparent delight, then clapped again. The rest of the Syrian delegation seemed to rouse themselves, and followed their President’s lead by clapping dutifully as well, joined a moment later by the Israelis. Soon the applause of all the spectators echoed around the edges of the little lake.

The Syrian President leaned over and said something to the Israeli Prime Minister, who turned and spoke urgently to Ari Block. The Mossad man looked back at Liz. ‘Wonderful!’ he shouted with an enthusiastic smile. ‘The President asks if there will be more fireworks like this one.’

Thank God for diplomacy, thought Liz, as the sound of police sirens echoed round the grounds. She would probably never know how much the Syrians really knew about the background to the explosion, but their President had obviously decided that the evening was going to be a success whatever happened. And as no one had been killed, except poor Kreuzer, a success it would be.

FIFTY-SEVEN

It was Private Grossman who saw the footprint. Lieutenant Wilentz was leading the other men to the truck after they’d stopped for a ten-minute break when Grossman called out: ‘Sir!’

‘What is it?’ the lieutenant shouted irritably. They’d been out here on the Golan Plateau for over six hours, and everyone wanted to get back - to hot showers, hot food, and cold air-conditioning. The dry season had been unusually prolonged and the temperature was an unseasonal eighty-five. In the distance, the snow-covered peaks of the Mount Hermon range shimmered in the heat like a tempting icecream.

‘There’s a footprint here,’ said Grossman, pointing to the dust lying thickly on the packed earth of the track.

Wilentz came over at once. They were two miles from the Quneitra Crossing, the one official access point between Israel and Syria, though it operated strictly one-way - young Syrians living in the occupied Golan Heights were allowed into their former homeland to pursue their studies, but could only return to their families once a year.

There were frequent incursions; most recently Hezbollah had been active in the area, even setting off landmines on the Syrian side in an effort to ratchet up the tension between the neighbouring states. There was growing concern among the Israeli army command that Hezbollah would venture onto the Israeli side as well, which was why Wilentz and his patrol were there.

The officer studied the print, Grossman beside him. ‘It’s pointing towards the border,’ said the younger man, trying to sound analytic. He was only eighteen.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Lieutenant Wilentz, who tried to be tolerant with the soldiers under his command. Most of them were kids like Grossman, doing their National Service. ‘But,’ he added, ‘that’s not the most important thing. Look at the footprint. Does it tell you anything else?’

Grossman looked down at the indentation in the dust, wondering what he was missing. ‘It looks freshly made,’ he said.

‘Yes. What else?’ Suddenly Lieutenant Wilentz stamped down with his boot, about six inches from the print. ‘Look,’ he ordered.

Grossman peered down, and then he saw it. ‘It’s almost identical.’

‘Exactly. It’s an army boot that made this print. An
Israeli
army boot.’

Wilentz called to the other men in the patrol and barked orders. They left the truck where it was and moved on foot, Wilentz out in front. As they got further from the road, the footprints became clearer and Wilentz, following the tracks, walked without hesitating.

After half a mile they came to a small rise with a mix of large boulders and loose shingle on its lower slope. The officer signalled his men to halt, then walked back to the group to issue more orders. Five minutes later Private Grossman was clambering up the rocky slope accompanied by Alfi Sternberg, a Haifa conscript he knew from college. Why would a soldier be out here on his own? he wondered. Gone AWOL? But then why was he heading for the Syrian border?

He saw the water bottle first, lying beside a boulder in a small dip in the rock. As he moved towards it, he realised that behind the boulder, sheltered by a larger boulder balanced above it, there was a big space. He gestured with his hand to Sternberg, and together they moved cautiously towards the spot, their rifles at the ready.

Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed the water bottle, then a man rose to his feet from behind the boulder. He was tall and lean and wore fatigues. He stood facing them with the assurance of a veteran soldier, cradling a T.A.R. assault rifle in his arms.

‘Glad to see you,’ he said laconically. ‘I’ve been watching you out there for some time.’

Sternberg laughed in relief and relaxed his grip on his rifle. Grossman hesitated; he didn’t understand what this man was doing here. ‘Who are you?’ he blurted.