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  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Meir briskly.

  After a shower and a bite to eat, Patterson sat on the broad terrace, calming his nerves after the visit to the Moshav Sabra with a whisky and water. The sun burned hot on his forearm as contemplated the view. He edged his chair back into the shade. The spacious five-bedroom house was built on a low hill north of Tel Aviv overlooking the Mediterranean which lay three kilometres to the west.

  One of Patterson’s first moves after his arrival in Israel nearly thirty years before had been to buy this prime one-hectare site. His second move had been to commission one of Tel Aviv’s top architects to design and supervise the building of the house. Not only had all of Tel Aviv society been invited to the housewarming, but everyone involved in its construction: bricklayers; carpenters; tillers everyone, Arab or Jew, it didn’t matter to Patterson. It was the first of many similar parties. His early life had been a heady mix of high living, which he cultivated, and dangerous living, which he relished. And there had been girls, of course. Plenty of girls. Girls who were attracted to his extravagant personality and swashbuckling lifestyle. Girls to be treated with the fickle arrogance of youth - creatures to be laid and then mislaid.

  Maturity had come, as it always does, when he was in his thirties - too late for him to form a permanent relationship with any woman even if he had the inclination. In the narrow, close-knit Israeli society reputations were like the clock: impossible to turn back. He still gave parties - sometimes riotous affairs reminiscent of the old days - but more often than not his guests were couples invited for summer weekends so that there would be no next day aftermath of the house echoing with emptiness.

  A girl’s shrieks followed by a loud splash from the garden intruded on his thoughts. It was Meir’s teenage daughter cavorting in the swimming pool with her latest boyfriend. He finished his drink and started work by writing to the Mahal Association regarding Daniel. Handwritten because he didn’t want it committed to tape. He enclosed a cheque for a substantial sum, payable to the association, and instructed the secretary to add the sum anonymously to any payment that might be due to Daniel.

  ‘I hope they’re not making too much noise, sir,’ said Meir, crossing the terrace to refill the icecube bucket.

  Patterson smiled. ‘No - I like to hear the place being used ... I’ll be seeing more of it now.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’

  ‘They’ve caught up with me, Meir. As from next week, I’m finally off operational flying.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘Seems someone saw the date on my birth certificate and flipped. I guess I can’t complain. I’m pushing fifty. There’re pilots half my age who’ve been grounded.’ Meir looked genuinely sympathetic. Israeli skies without Ben Patterson to defend them seemed unthinkable. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. It won’t seem the same - not having you flying.’ ‘No,’ Patterson agreed. ‘It won’t seem the same.’

  2

  Another week passed before Leonora mustered the courage to tell Emil what was on her mind. They had been to a concert in Tel Aviv that Emil had particularly enjoyed. She waited until he sat on the bed and tugged off his shoes.

  ‘Emil - I’m worried about Daniel.’

  Emil unfastened his tie and looked across at Leonora who was sitting at the bedroom vanitory unit, brushing her hair. It still possessed a natural blonde sheen that had no need of artificial aids. ‘Why? His foot’s healing fine.’

  ‘It’s not right that he should be working here.’

  ‘I thought you liked having him at home?’

  ‘I do. But I feel guilty about it. It’s not right that a boy should go from an exciting life in the air force to being stuck here with us.’

  ‘I thought he enjoyed running the workshop?’

  Leonora grimaced at her reflection in the mirror, making certain that the wrinkles disappeared when she relaxed her features. She poked at the few obstinate lines that were now persisting around her eyes. ‘He makes the best of it, Emil.’

  Emil came behind her and circled his short, powerful arms around her waist. He was tempted to cup her breasts but even nineteen years of marriage did not mean that she permitted casual liberties. Their reflections exchanged smiles. ‘Has he told you he’s fed up?’ he asked. ‘No - but I know.’

  ‘A mother’s intuition.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leonora seriously.

  ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘Couldn’t you find him a job?’

  ‘You mean get him back on to flying duties?’

  Leonora turned around to face Emil. ‘No - I don’t mean that. It wouldn’t be right if he’s not fit to fly. But with his training - isn’t there something useful he could do? Surely you know someone? I don’t believe that a high-ranking officer spends the entire week alone in an office in Tel Aviv.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Annoyance flickered on Leonora’s face like the shadow of a fluttering moth. ‘I don’t know. Something different. Exciting. Travel. A job with an embassy. I’ve never asked much of you, Emil Kalen. Won’t you do this much for Daniel?’

  ‘Supposing Daniel resents the idea?’

  ‘Well at least he’d be given the chance to turn something down.’ Emil kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I have this weakness - I’d do anything for a blonde.’

  3

  ‘Jacob. Can you spare me a minute?’

  Emil had waylaid Jacob Wyel outside the room that Emil used at the Ministry of Defence as his ‘front’ office. It was Emil’s ‘official’ address - the target room for internal memos and circulars, and income tax forms so that Emil had a proper niche in the IDF. It was also useful for meetings with people who had no idea what Emil’s real job was and that his real office was on the sixth floor of the Institute on the other side of Tel Aviv. Although Emil never conducted Mossad business from the room, he had it checked at random intervals for listening devices.

  Jacob glanced pointedly at his Cartier wristwatch and looked questioningly at Emil.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ Emil assured him.

  ‘Five minutes, Emil. I’m a busy man.’

  Emil ignored the implied insult and showed Jacob into the small office. Its only item of furniture was a desk with an Adler electric typewriter, a couple of chairs, and a filing cabinet. Emil closed the door and waved Jacob to a chair.

  Jacob remained standing. ‘I’m sorry, Emil, but I don’t have the time for a long social chat.’

  Emil treated Jacob to one of his disarming grins. It had no effect on Jacob who was regarding him frostily. ‘For the first time I regret the enmity between us, Jacob.’

  Jacob looked bored. ‘Really? Why?’

  Emil noticed the gold cufflinks and manicured nails. Not for the first time he wondered how much the older man spent on his suits. He guessed that he had them made on his frequent trips to London. ‘I’m after a favour, Jacob. My stepson needs a job. He was shot down—’

  ‘Yes - I know. He can’t go back on to flying duties.’

  ‘I accept that. That’s not what I want. He doesn’t say much but we know that being grounded has hit him badly. We’d like him to have a job - something to take him abroad for a few months.’

  ‘You’ve got agents scattered all over the world,’ said Jacob icily. Emil shook his head. ‘Daniel would never fit into my organization.

  Besides - he’s not one hundred per cent fit. The reason I’m asking you, Jacob, is simply because we move in different circles. I don’t have the social contacts that you have. If I were to make approaches, people would think I was trying to plant an agent on them.’ ‘Hardly anyone knows who you are,’ Jacob pointed out. ‘Not even your own family.’

  ‘Enough do. That’s why I want you to make the arrangements.’ Emil chuckled. ‘You have what the Americans call a high profile. I’m sure you’d be just the man for fixing jobs for friends ... .If I had a wayward daughter, I imagine you’d be just the man to arrange for her to visit a discreet clinic in Zurich ... . Or if I had curious sexual taste
s, I’m sure you would be the one to organize interesting encounters in foreign cities ... that sort of thing.’ Emil paused. ‘But that is not what I am asking, Jacob. What I am asking is a job for my son.’

  Jacob gazed coolly at Emil and wondered just how good Emil’s information was. He had an uncomfortable feeling that it was very good. ‘Where would he like to go?' Emil spread his stubby fingers on the table. ‘Well... he’s keen on rock music. He’s got all the Rolling Stones’ records.’

  Jacob smiled thinly. ‘Swinging London?’

  Emil considered and then beamed. ‘I think he might jump at the chance.’

  4

  Daniel switched off the lathe and stared at Emil in astonishment. ‘London!’ he echoed.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Emil, grinning broadly. ‘El Al are willing to see you about a job in their Regent Street office. It’s a great opportunity.’

  ‘Ben’s asked me to think about a service posting to Israel Aircraft Industries as a liaison officer.’

  ‘Not quite the same league as Dassault,’ Emil observed.

  ‘An El Al ticket clerk is not the same league as working at IAI?’ Emil looked shocked. ‘Good God - no. The job’s nothing as prestigious as a ticket clerk. You’ll be a general dogsbody. The stand-in for when the coffee machine breaks down.’

  Daniel was taken aback at first and then he saw the amused light dancing in his stepfather’s eyes. He burst out laughing.

  5

  LONDON

  The immigration officer at Heathrow Airport finished copying down the details from Daniel’s work permit. Like immigration officers the world over, he had developed the knack of vetting people by looking at their photograph without appearing to look at the new arrival’s face. On this occasion the officer was surprised by Daniel’s blond hair and aristocratic features which he owed to his Armenian grandparents. Daniel Kalen certainly did not look like an Israeli. After an unusual second glance at Daniel’s face to satisfy himself that all was in order, the officer stamped the passport and the work permit and wished Daniel an enjoyable stay in Britain.

  Even the slight effort of pushing his luggage trolley through the customs hall caused Daniel’s injured foot to ache. In the terminal entrance he was confronted by a jostling crowd of travel couriers and car hire agents waving placards. A tall young man with lank dark hair homed in on Daniel.

  ‘Dan Kalen?’

  ‘Daniel Kalen - yes,’ Daniel corrected.

  The man shot out a hand. ‘Bob Appleby. El Al. My car’s in the short term.’

  The brief respite between the clearing of the last El Al arrivals and the disgorging of an Iberian flight gave the immigration officer a chance to catch up on his paperwork. Detailed information on Daniel was added to the daily aliens list - those foreigners with permission to work in Britain. Each day the lists from all the desks were collated into a master list and telexed to the Home Office Aliens Bureau in Croydon, who created a set of eighty-column punched cards for each person. The punched cards were fed through IBM tabulating machines and the resulting listings distributed to those government agencies, such as the Special Branch, who had a ‘need to know’ requirement on the activities of all aliens working in the country.

  Appleby drove his Austin Healey 3000 with either the brake pedal or the throttle pedal hard on the floor. Sometimes both at the same time or so it seemed to Daniel as they weaved and swerved towards London along the A40. It was five o’clock on a hot evening. The sports car was hemmed in by as much traffic heading into London as was leaving it. To make progress seemed to require as much coordination and lightning reflexes as tangling with MiGs flown by the more skilled Egyptian pilots. Appleby’s driving ability was matched by his conversational talents - he was a nonstop talker. Daniel was content to let him gabble on while he took in his hot, sticky, diesel fume-filled surroundings and tried to forget the dull ache in his left foot.

  ‘Heard you’d been in the air force,’ Appleby was saying. ‘You guys did a fantastic job. By the way - I’m the London PR manager. Your new boss. London born and bred. I’ve never been to Israel despite ninety per cent staff discounts on seats. Always trying to work a posting. It must be a fair-sized country now since last month because they’ll never give it up. How about a quick circuit around the West End before we find your flat?’

  In Knightsbridge Daniel’s eye was caught by a vision striding confidently along the pavement. The girl was wearing high white boots reaching up legs that seemed to go on forever before they disappeared under the shortest skirt he had ever seen. Had Appleby been driving any faster, Daniel might have dislocated his neck as the Healey whipped past the girl.

  ‘Wow!’

  Appleby glanced at his passenger and laughed. ‘You’ll get used to it. We’ll take a couple of turns round Eros. What’s usually sitting on the steps will blow your mind.’

  ‘Oh - we’ve got mini-skirts in Israel,’ said Daniel, trying to sound blase and not succeeding. ‘But nothing like that. And there’s a district in Jerusalem where they’d lynch girls for showing their knees.’

  ‘Sounds like Australia,’ Appleby commented, swerving to avoid being carved up by a Mini-Cooper. ‘They nearly kicked out Jean Shrimpton for wearing a mini-skirt.’

  The tour took in Leicester Square. Daniel was surprised to see that the same films - such as Bonnie and Clyde and The Dirty Dozen - were showing as were showing in Tel Aviv. Somehow he expected London would be different. In all other respects it was devastatingly different and he doubted Appleby’s assurance that he would get used to seeing girls in such incredibly short skirts.

  ‘And that’s your salt mine for the next six months,’ said Appleby, pointing out the El Al office as they drove along Regent Street. ‘Okay - let’s get you installed in the flat. Brewer Street. Just down here on the right. Edge of Soho. Area’s a bit sleazy but the flat’s clean and cheap, and a woman cleans up for an hour each morning. Three hundred yards’ walk from the office. They’ll knock forty quid a month off your pay for it but I expect they’ve told you all that.’

  With its entrance squeezed between a television shop and a scruffy Chinese restaurant, the first floor flat was more respectable than the exterior of the building or the neighbourhood suggested. There was a living-room overlooking the narrow, noisy street; a tiny kitchen which Appleby called a ‘kitchenette’; a bathroom with a drip- stained bath; and a boxroom-sized bedroom into which a previous occupant had managed to squeeze a double bed so that there was less than a foot clearance between it and the walls.

  ‘Don’t go in for any energetic orgies without accident insurance,’ Appleby advised as he helped dump Daniel’s suitcases on the bed. ‘That seems to be the lot. Anything else?’

  ‘Is there a record player?’

  ‘You’ll have to buy one,’ said Appleby cheerfully. He indicated an elderly radio. ‘The BBC’s useless for decent music but there’s always Radio Caroline. Good signal here. Enjoy it while you can. There’s a Bill going through Parliament to close down the pirate stations. Two channels on the telly - BBC and commercial. Okay - I’d best be sliding now. I’ll be in the office first thing tomorrow to say “hallo”. Ten on the dot. Be seeing you.’ With that Appleby clattered down the narrow stairs.

  As Daniel watched the Healey drive off, a strikingly pretty girl, wearing a leather mini-skirt that barely covered her crotch, and a see-through blouse, crossed the street with a nervous-looking man in tow. They entered the building. He heard their footsteps passing his door. A few minutes later there were the unmistakable sounds of frenzied love-making from the flat above. Daniel’s few real sexual experiences were limited to a number of furtive after-dance encounters with girl soldiers of the Nahal, but they were enough to tell him that the girl upstairs had to be faking the outlandish noises she was making. A theory that was confirmed thirty minutes later as he was arranging his record albums on a shelf; the girl had found another male companion and was giving a repeat performance with the sound effects. Daniel looked at his watch.
It was only eight-thirty.

  London, he decided, was very different from Tel Aviv.

  6

  Ian McNaill was a florid, overweight forty-eight-year-old with two ex-wives and a small office in the United States Embassy that did not overlook Grosvenor Square. According to the floor plans of the prestigious new building, his third floor office and those of his many colleagues were designated as belonging to ‘Liaison Services’ agencies - a meaningless title when one considers that the function of all embassies is liaison. Nor did his name appear in the embassy telephone directory, simply because he had a direct outside line that did not go through the embassy’s switchboard. On those occasions when his internal or outside line telephone rang, he would answer with a cryptic: ‘Three-one-oh’ rather than give his name. Ostensibly, McNaill was responsible to the United States ambassador; in reality his bosses were based in Norfolk, Virginia at the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. In practice he had virtually an unrestricted brief to act as the CIA’s London-based ear-to-the- ground on Middle East affairs and was required to obtain information that did not arrive at the embassy through the so-called normal consular channels. To this end McNaill had painstakingly built up a London network of informers - not necessarily spies in the true sense of the word - but journalists, industrialists, public relations men, and even socialites: men and women, who by their profession and range of contacts, could keep him fed with titbits of information to which he applied his shrewd assessment abilities to separate the ore from the dross for his weekly factual reports on the London scene. Where McNaill needed information, he planted infiltrators - sometimes going as far as using the considerable financial resources available to him to set up operations such as underground newspapers with curious political views which attracted subscriptions and contributions from those whom McNaill was anxious to keep tabs on. McNaill tried to keep his operations in reasonable bounds so that they could be run efficiently by one man. What was worrying was that many of his colleagues were compulsive empire-builders, with the result that the CIA London organization had become a dangerously unwieldy, overcomplicated structure that seemed in danger of collapsing under its own ponderous weight.