One
Cairo, 1982

“ÂHLAN WI SÁHLAN! … Âhlan wi sáhlan!”

The tall man moved steadily through the Cairo Bazaar in the center of the still ancient part of the city. His pace was seasoned and sure, each step purposeful. The paved dirt that formed the street beneath him had been baked by the mid-afternoon Egyptian sun, so that it was dry and brittle and seemed to crack under his determined strut. His brow was soaked with sweat but he dared not wipe it, because he knew that the dark brown skin coloring might come off with the moisture that bonded it to his flesh.

Instead, his hands remained coiled by their sides, swaying to-and-fro in rhythm with his pace. Dressed in white tunic and cap, the tall man melded perfectly with those around him in the crowded square, lined on both sides with outdoor shops, the voices of their smiling proprietors booming boisterously above the rest of the unrestrained hubbub.

“Authentic Egyptian wares! Bargains today! … Bargains today!”

The words were repeated in four languages for the benefit of tourists. Other points were made in quieter fashion, sales soon to follow. Few left the square empty-handed.

But the tall man was interested in a different kind of merchandise. Fourteen children had been murdered. He was here to learn where the terrorist responsible could be found … one way or another.

The tall man picked up a churning sound to his rear, mixing with a slight but regular squeak. An alarm went off in his head. His defenses readied instinctively for attack. But the alarm was false, the attack nonexistent. A boy passed harmlessly by on a bicycle, peddling barefoot, balancing a tray of rounded bread loaves on his head.

The man cringed. An empty feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. He had been only a few seconds and steps away from killing the boy. There had been a second of indecision, of doubt. His mind had been wandering, his thoughts on the past instead of the present.

How many streets like this had he walked down? How many countries had he entered under one name and departed under another? How many men had he killed?

The questions bothered the tall man, not because they lacked answers so much as he had raised them in the first place. After two years, he had hoped things would have returned to the way they once were. They hadn’t. His eyes still saw two sides of a problem which could have only one. The icy coldness remained a state of mind instead of being. He would have to push for it now, push hard.

It was actually a long chain of events which led to the man leaving the Game twenty-six months before. But in looking back he remembered only one incident.

A bomb had gone off in a kibbutz, killing three and injuring a dozen. The man had followed the trail of the PLO culprit to a flophouse in Jerusalem. He kicked down a door, pistol in hand, and burst into a sixth floor room that stank of urine. In a corner chair sat a boy no more than fourteen, his face dimly illuminated by light spilling in the window.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Alabaster,” the boy said.

The tall man studied the dark Arab features and black curls that swam across the young forehead. He raised the gun but could not fire it.

“What are you waiting for?” the boy asked.

Alabaster could not answer. Something in him was breaking. Or perhaps it had already broken. The pistol felt heavy and uncomfortable in his hand.

“Don’t bother trying to interrogate me, I won’t answer any of your questions,” the boy continued staunchly. “You can torture me all you want but I won’t talk. I won’t talk!”

“I didn’t come here to ask questions.”

“Of course not. The great Alabaster, the great hunter never has any questions to ask. He merely comes for the kill.” The boy rose, pointing to the center of his sweat-soaked shirt. “Well, I’m ready to die. Go ahead, fire your gun. Gain your Jewish vengeance. Right here, in the heart.” The boy was trembling now. “My life doesn’t matter. You can’t kill all of us. There will be more bombs. More of your people will die.” Alabaster remained motionless. The boy again pointed at the center of his shirt. His trembling had increased. “Go ahead. Why waste any more of your precious time?”

“I won’t kill you,” the Israeli said. He lowered his Browning automatic pistol. “Get out of here. Go back to your people.”

“No.”

“I’m giving you your life. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

“I want you to change it. I want you to kill me here and now.”

Alabaster studied the youth before him. A boy turned into a monster by the world he had helped create. “You have not lived long enough to become a martyr.”

“I was born a martyr, as all my people are thanks to yours.” A pause. “I’ll make you kill me! I’ll make you!”

He lunged forward, waiting for the pistol to explode before him. It never did. Instead, Alabaster sidestepped his charge and tripped the boy up, sending him reeling face first onto the floor. He rose sobbing and rushed again. This time Alabaster twisted his shoulders and stepped into the center of the charge, using the boy’s own momentum to send him into a headlong dive. The boy rose to his knees in an absurd position of prayer. He was breathing hard, shaking violently.

“Now get out of here,” Alabaster said softly. “Go home.”

“No!”

With an anguished scream, the boy rose to his feet and ran for the window. Alabaster leaped to stop him but was too late. Glass exploded. There was one long hideous wail that stretched into oblivion as flesh and bone collided with concrete. Blood ran and pooled on the sidewalk.

Alabaster felt sick. The questioning had begun and continued for much of the past two years.

What the hell did it matter anyway?

Kill one and another took his place. The circle swirls unbroken, closing in. It was all pointless and futile. So Alabaster had left the Game, for good he thought, until he realized it was too much a part of him. He could turn his back on it but somehow the urge to twist his shoulders and glance behind him would always be there. He had stopped hating yet he had never stopped caring. That was the problem.

So when a terrorist bomb had blown up a school bus in Tel Aviv killing fourteen children, Alabaster decided it was time to return. He had learned from an informant in Beirut that Arab terrorist Abad Salim was the proprietor. And he had come to Cairo to find out Salim’s hiding place from a second informant named Marabi. His sources told him Marabi could be trusted as much as any pigeon which still meant he could not be trusted at all.

Up ahead in the crowded square, Alabaster saw the rendezvous point. His sharp, unfeeling eyes scanned the area as he veered to his right in the direction of an alley. Licking the salt from his lips, he passed slowly into the shadows, at once missing the bright welcome sun above him.

His eyes quickly adjusted to the half-darkness, making out an Egyptian in a white suit and black turban wearing sunglasses before him. On either side of the Egyptian stood a man in an outdated brown leisure suit and white turban, the one on the right being significantly taller and broader than his counterpart. Alabaster did not recall their presence being mentioned as part of the bargain.

“You are Alabaster,” said the Egyptian, removing his sunglasses and scrutinizing the man before him.

The Israeli had narrowed the gap between them to less than a yard. “And you are Marabi?”

“At your service.” The Egyptian forced a slight bow. It was easy to hate Marabi which was good because Alabaster needed to hate now more than ever.

“It would seem so, considering how easy it was for me to set up this meeting.”

The Egyptian allowed himself a bright smile. “I am told that when Alabaster wants something, making yourself scarce only delays the issue.”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“Indeed, as does your code name, which I assume it is. I’m interested in its origins. Did you choose ‘Alabaster’?”

“For now, Marabi, the questions are mine. Where is Abad Salim?”

“Salim, Salim … Am I supposed to know this man?”

“Since he is a leading figure in Black September and you were once one of that organization’s top operatives, I should hope so.”

Marabi shrugged. “That was long ago, Alabaster. I have lost all contact with my former associates.”

“Oh? Then you haven’t been in Lebanon lately?”

“No.”

“How strange. You were seen leaving a hotel there not three days ago with a number of your ‘former associates’.”

“I haven’t been in Beirut in nearly a year.”

“Who said the hotel was in Beirut?”

The Egyptian’s dark skin whitened a bit. “All the same I cannot help you find this Salim. I don’t even know what he looks like. It was so long ago. His name strikes only a vague chord in my memory.” Marabi placed his sunglasses in his breast pocket. His English was virtually flawless and only slightly accented.

“Then let me refresh it,” Alabaster said sharply. “In 1970, Yassir Arafat created what became known as the Special Operations Apparatus, Jihaz al-Amaliyat al-Khassa: Black September, Marabi, also known as Al Fatah. The charge of the Apparatus was to undertake terrorist actions across the globe to gain attention for the cause of the PLO at the same time the PLO fought to gain credibility as a legitimate nation. Arafat’s plan, simply stated, was to fuse two objectives into one and maintain the best of both worlds. Abad Salim became one of the original leaders of the Black September world, though I understand he has fallen out of favor recently.” Alabaster’s eyes moved from Marabi to his bodyguards. Their action would have to come soon.

“In the circles I travel in, Alabaster, you have always been known as somewhat of a legend,” Marabi said coolly. “A bounty hunter who accepts no bounty. A master of disguise. A man whose true identity is not known even in the highest levels of the Mossad itself. A vigilante. … I have heard much rejoicing from my former associates since your sudden disappearance two years ago. These have been pleasant times for them indeed without you lurking around in the shadows.”

“I’m sorry to spoil their fun.”

“They always knew you’d come back. But I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong time. Your trail has gone cold. I have heard of Abad Salim but don’t recall ever meeting him. I have no idea where he is today.”

“A week ago he was in Tel Aviv killing fourteen children and crippling twenty more.”

“Ah yes, the bombing. Believe it or not, I was quite disgusted with that myself.” Marabi tried to sigh and failed. “Believe me, if I knew anything I would tell you.”

“Your intentions are meaningless to me. I want information.”

“I can’t provide it.”

“You had better try.”

“Toward what end?”

Alabaster nodded slowly, the traces of a smile flickering across his lips. “A rumor is circulating in Israel that you are and always have been a Mossad spy. Your ‘former associates’ might not take kindly to you if that rumor were to, by chance, reach them. Cooperate with me and I’ll make sure it’s suppressed.”

“And I am supposed to trust you?”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Hah!” Marabi glanced at the bodyguards on either side of him. They stood silent and still, not seeming to blink. “You’re speaking fairy tales, Alabaster. Nothing but fairy tales.”

“People die in fairy tales, Marabi, often quite violently. Almost as violently as those children did in Tel Aviv. They cry out from their graves, begging for retribution against the man responsible for their murders. I hear those cries, Marabi. I hear them so clearly, I can’t sleep. That is why I have returned. But you are going to help me rest easier. You are going to tell me where I can find Abad Salim.”

“And what do you offer in return?”

“Your life.”

The Egyptian’s eyes flared with rage. He stepped back, swallowed by the frames of his bodyguards. “And how many other Palestinian lives have you taken? How many of those remote control devices have you planted? You want to wipe us out single-handedly, is that it? But you made one grave mistake when you dared assassinate the beloved Abu Hassan. That turned the fear we felt for you to hate. A price was put on your head, a hefty price. So you ran and hid but you finally came back as we always knew you would. It will give me great pleasure to claim the blood money, though the satisfaction of killing you will be payment in itself. Enjoy your last breath, Jew!”

The words were meant to distract Alabaster, to draw his eyes into a vengeful visual embrace with Marabi’s so that when the Egyptian’s bodyguards made their move, there would be no quick reaction to counter it.

But there was.

As the smaller man on the left drew his gun, Alabaster hurdled over the diving form of Marabi. In a blur, he had spun quickly to his left, planting his right foot as a pivot point. The back of his right fist then shot out at the man holding the gun, crashing into the bridge of his nose and shattering bones upon impact. Blood poured in a steady stream from both nostrils. The gun fell from the man’s hand as he brought his fingers up in a futile effort of comfort for his shattered face.

Almost simultaneously, Alabaster’s left elbow had found its way into the larger man’s solar plexus. But the blow was not so strong as it might have been and the large, well-muscled man merely recoiled backwards without doubling over. When the Israeli approached again, he saw a long shiny blade in his opponent’s hand, glinting in the faint light of the alley. The man smiled, obviously confident of his prowess with the weapon. But Alabaster didn’t notice the smile because he knew that looking at any one part of the body was an invitation to be tricked by false motion. He saw all of the man while seeing none of him.

So when the long blade shot out toward his stomach in a glistening blur, Alabaster was able to turn quickly and deflect the strike, grabbing the man’s hand as it passed by. Reflexively, he then jerked the wrist in the opposite direction, pushing down with his right hand while twisting with his left. The large bodyguard was suddenly airborne, separated from the handle, crashing into the hard surface some five feet away. He tried to stagger back to his feet but Alabaster was quickly upon him with a vicious kick to the temple. The man slumped backwards with a gasp, eyes closing.

By this time, the smaller bodyguard, his sight clouded over by a painful mist, had begun to grope for the steel of the revolver on the dust-soaked ground beneath him, moving his hands about in desperate circles. Finally he had it in his grasp, or almost did, because before his fingers could close around the handle, a swift foot sliced through the air and swept the gun away from him. The bodyguard scrambled for it again, fighting to get back on his feet. He never did. Alabaster lashed out with a perfectly timed uppercut to the man’s chin that lifted him off the ground before tumbling him to the cool dirt of the alley. He landed unconscious with a sharp thud, blood still oozing from what was left of his nose.

Seeing this, Marabi began to crawl toward the alley’s entrance. All at once, though, the tall man in the white tunic stood before him and blocked his path.

“Please!… Please!” Marabi’s plea was barely audible.

Without straining, Alabaster hoisted the Egyptian to his feet, gripping him by the lapels, and slammed him backwards against a wall. His strength seemed unreal.

“You ask me for pity, Marabi? After all this, you ask me for pity?”

The Egyptian was shaking with fear, breathing in rapid thrusts. “If I tell you what you want to know, will you still kill me?”

“If you don’t, I most certainly will.”

“I need more of an assurance than that.”

“You won’t get it.” Alabaster tightened his grip across Marabi’s chest, twisting the Egyptian’s shirt across his windpipe. He continued to increase the pressure until Marabi’s face turned scarlet red and then gradually eased off. “Now tell me where I can find Abad Salim or you will never talk again!”

The Egyptian swallowed a huge gulp of welcome air. “Haifa,” he gasped. “Haifa …”

Ten

THERE IS A TOWN in Israel that lies almost at the midpoint between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. The town is best known for not being known at all. In fact, it has no name because it exists only in the minds of the Israeli officials who created it as a haven for recuperating or retired Mossad agents who have lived a great part of their lives on both sides of a gun and wish to live there no longer. Most will say that those who come to the town with no name do so to die.

But David Rabanine had come there to live. Or, at least, try to.

The murder of his wife eleven years before had faced him with a realization he could evade no more than he could a bullet: The great successes of his tenure in the field amounted to basically nothing. Actually less than nothing when you consider that the one life that had been taken from him far outweighed the lives he had taken from others.

There was no escaping that reality or the reality of his wife’s death and Rabanine did not bother trying. Instead, he packed up his life in one large suitcase and took his two-year-old son Shaul to live in a restored house on one hundred acres of land supplied by the Mossad who always looked after their own.

But not their own’s wives.

He was done. Finished. His skills and desire, David told his superiors, had eluded him. He was more than willing to offer advice and consultation when requested. But he could no longer deal in the circles of espionage. He could no longer fire a gun and preferred not to even hold one.

Rivkah was dead … because of him.

But he still had Shaul and that made life worth living. At thirteen, the boy was everything Rabanine dreamed he would be. Tall and muscular for his age, Shaul had the body of an athlete and the face of an actor. It was soft, full and bronze-colored—the face of his mother—topped by long sandy-brown straight hair that stretched to his eyebrows and over his ears. His smile was his mother’s as well; white, warm, disarming.

Shaul was Rabanine’s reason to keep on living and to refuse any assignment the Mossad offered that might threaten the life they had built together. “I am retired,” he told his former superiors again and again.

I am retired.

The land rover, being driven by one of the eleven men who watched over the estate and farmed some of the land, turned right onto a dirt road. Home was just up ahead. The rover hit a bump, sending David from the seat and into the air for a second. The driver apologized. The front gate of his property appeared fifty yards ahead.

The estate was surrounded by a six-foot high stone fence, as old as the town with no name itself. There was only one entrance and it was manned constantly by one of the workers. No one can get in or out without setting off an electronic alarm wired across the stone fence. If necessary, the guards’ orders are to shoot intruders on sight. They are devoted men, committed to the man they have been charged with protecting. They are also superb soldiers. The estate is a fortress.

“Good to see you back, David,” said the gate guard when the rover stopped to allow him to remove the heavy chain. Rabanine insisted that all of his men call him by his first name. “How was your trip?”

“Boring and tiring. I don’t know which is the greater.”

The guard smiled. Every time Rabanine returned from a conference at Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv, he would ask him this same question and receive the same answer. He liked Rabanine immensely, as did all the other workers on the estate. David was an amiable man and a good-looking one as well. He was tall and might have been well-built, though it was hard to tell now because of the tired way he carried himself. His face was strong but weary, marked by deep creases and crevices of depression and fatigue. His eyes were deep but somehow empty, dull. His smile wide but much too rare.

As the rover pulled to a halt in the circular drive twenty-five yards in front of the large house, Rabanine saw Moshe moving toward him. Moshe was his most trusted ally, a huge hulk of a man whose strength in the mountains around the area was legendary. He had fought in all of Israel’s wars, save for the first, and on three occasions he was known to have destroyed entire Arab regiments single-handedly. As usual, David saw that the giant, bearded Moshe was wearing a sleeveless shirt and sheepskin vest. As usual, David could feel that the immense power of the man was exceeded only by his gentleness. Rabanine loved to watch the giant teach Shaul the ways of the land. Peaceful ways.

“Good to see you,” David said, firmly clasping the huge extended hand before him. Moshe squeezed gently. If sufficiently provoked, David reflected, the giant could probably break a man in two. “How have things been the last few days?”

“Good, thank God,” Moshe replied. “All is well. Shaul is doing his lessons. He’ll be out as soon as word of your arrival reaches him. He can’t wait.”

“Neither can I.”

“How long has it been?”

“A week but it seems much longer. It always does.” Rabanine noticed that Moshe was holding a large manilla envelope in his right hand.

“While you were away, this came for you from America. I wanted you to see it before Shaul comes out.” Moshe handed the envelope to David. “It is a request for your services.”

“Then you have opened it,” said Rabanine, smiling.

“Don’t I always,” laughed Moshe, patting his massive chest. “If I didn’t, the boy would. You wouldn’t want that.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

David withdrew the contents of the envelope and began to read a page-long letter signed by Colonel Vernon P. Rossi, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. His expression tightened as he lifted the letter up in order to see the 8 X 10 color picture that was clipped beneath it. The faces in the photo stared up at him. His mouth dropped. His face became pale and distant.

“Something is wrong, yes?” asked Moshe.

David didn’t answer. His eyes were riveted on the five men in the picture, his mind moving backwards to capture lost moments.

“Something is wrong, yes?” the giant repeated.

“What? … Oh, I’m not sure. … I’m not sure.”

Suddenly the doors to the great house flew open and Shaul ran down the steps smiling, dressed in blue jeans and work shirt. He ran forward and embraced David. Rabanine returned the hold briefly, placing the manilla envelope and its contents on the land rover’s hood. Then the father moved the son away, still grasping his shoulders and smiled; the color back in his face.

“Good God, you seem to have grown in the week I’ve been gone. Keep going and you’ll end up as big as Moshe.”

“But not as clumsy, I hope,” laughed the giant, again slapping his huge chest.

“I missed you,” the boy said.

“When you were smaller, you always expected me to bring you a present from my trips.”

“I still do.”

“Oh?”

“A young girl, preferably French.”

“Why French?”

“Because of those pants they wear in the magazines.” Shaul smiled.

Rabanine turned toward Moshe. “I believe the boy is growing up.”

“It happens to the best of us,” the giant said wryly.

“Yes, we are all cursed.”

“I don’t consider those girls in the magazines a curse,” Shaul said in mock argument.

“Wait a minute,” said David. “What magazines are you … Oh, now I see. The magazines with the pictures.”

The boy laughed, a bit embarrassed.

“Your time will come, Shaul. And you will live to regret it just like the rest of us.”

“I hope I did not speed up the process by giving him the magazines,” Moshe mumbled to David.

“I could get them in town anyway,” proclaimed the boy. “Did you have a good time in the city?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

“As good as can be expected. Israeli girls are not as, ah, revealing as French ones are.”

“Perhaps you will go to Paris someday.”

“Perhaps I will take you with me.”

“Really!”

“If you promise not to pinch anything that doesn’t belong to you.

Moshe smiled. David was a different man when around Shaul. The boy seemed to recharge the vitality in him. Often when he returned from these trips, he would be depressed for days. Around Shaul, though, this depression was never obvious. Either it disappeared or was cleverly covered. Moshe was never sure which. Probably a combination of both.

“You better go inside and finish your lessons,” David told his son.

“But a package came for you. I want to get it.”

“Then go ahead.”

The boy ran back toward the house.

“What package?” David asked Moshe.

“Just some of those agricultural books you ordered. I’ve opened it already, of course.”

“Of course.”

Rabanine picked up the photograph he had placed on the hood of the land rover and began to study it again. His eyes were motionless, unblinking.

“They want your help, yes?”

“They seem to.”

“Will you provide it?”

“I have no desire to open old wounds.”

“But it is tempting, no?”

David nodded slowly. “I suppose.”

“A chance to face old enemies. To achieve vengeance, a vengeance you thirst for in your soul.”

“You know me too well.”

“I am your friend. If you go to America, I will come with you, yes? I recognized the big, bald one in the picture as the man whose strength is said to know no equal. I have always wanted a chance to face him and prove this wrong.”

David shook his head. “If I decided to go, Shaul would need you here with him. His safety must come first. Leave Seif to—” Something struck Rabanine. A detail, lost somewhere in the recent past. “Moshe, you said the books were agricultural. But the ones I ordered were not supposed to arrive for another two months.”

“All the same, they are here.”

“I guess they must have …” The giant watched David shudder and his face turn white with a fear he did not know his employer was capable of feeling. “Oh God … No! … No!”

Rabanine was running now, running for the huge oak door of the great house.

“Shaul! Shaul! … Don’t touch the box!” His hand grasped the old knob, his insides a mesh of tightly gnarled wire. “Don’t open that—”

David heard the blast at the very moment the door flew backwards, rocketing him from the porch. The ground below came up fast and hard and he felt himself land but was powerless to feel anything else. There was pain in his head and ribcage and warm blood was dripping from his arms that had cushioned the fall.

In the last seconds before consciousness slipped away from him, he knew he would live.

And he also knew that he did not want to.

At that moment halfway across the world, two men were sitting alone in a spacious office. One, a man with cold blue eyes, fidgeted before a massive desk. The other, a man with sizzling white hair, fidgeted behind it.

“So you see,” said the man with cold eyes, “all our fears have been confirmed. The Arabs have suddenly emerged as the greatest threat to our destiny.”

“Your destiny, not mine.”

“Must we rehash old arguments?”

“Not if you leave right now.”

The man with cold eyes tilted his head to one side. “You know I can’t do that. We need you.”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“Isn’t there? You’re the only one left who knows enough to help us. Besides, you owe the organization quite a bit, all of this in fact,” the man with cold eyes said, glancing around him. “We have come to collect.”

The white haired man tightened his aged hands into fists. “We went our separate ways long ago.”

“But they have crossed again.” The man with cold eyes sighed. “At this moment one of our people is preparing an interesting report for the wire services about the true identity of a murderer who has thus far been able to escape punishment, a man who has risen to a position of great power and is known rightfully as a great humanitarian. He is waiting for a phone call before turning that report in. If I leave here now, I will make that phone call.”

“And risk exposing yourself?”

“If the Arabs are successful, it won’t matter.”

The white haired man held back the rage that surged within him. “And how am I supposed to help you? Do you expect me to run from this office and stop the Arabs single-handed?”

“No, we will take care of that end. We merely will require your … expertise … in recouping what we’ve lost.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Not too long, I trust. Otherwise the papers will find themselves with an interesting story.”

“And how do you expect to stop the Arabs?”

“Cerberus.”

“A killer?”

“Not just a killer. Cerberus is a master of his work, probably the best of his kind in the world. He’s been responsible for dealing with those who’ve come too close to us and our work for years. He has never failed and will not now. He’ll be ordered to execute all those immediately responsible for implementation of the plan by the Arabs, as well as any others who get too close.”

“And, of course, innocent people will die.”

“If necessary.”

“Isn’t it always?” the white haired man challenged. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in hearing an alternative strategy.”

“Not at this point. The decisions have already been made, the wheels set in motion.”

“And me?”

The man with cold eyes chuckled. “We’ve paid our premiums. You, my friend, are our insurance policy.”

Meanwhile, in Crescent Falls, Wyoming Sheriff Bugsy Tyler leaned his massive frame against the window of his office. 100 yards down the street at the railroad station he watched Dave Dean and Mayor Jim Layton shake hands with the five strangers who had just arrived to look for oil in the dying town. All five were dressed leisurely in polo shirts and slacks. None of them looked like the outdoor type.

The man who Bugsy guessed was the leader went through introductions and more handshakes were exchanged. Everyone was smiling.

Nervously, Tyler swirled a wad of tobacco juice around in his mouth and spit it into the garbage can beneath him. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. Something was wrong here. He had a feeling, just a feeling. …

Tyler then watched as six crates of heavy equipment were loaded into a pickup truck and station wagon. The strangers climbed inside one or the other and were gone.

Bugsy stepped out the office door into the cool spring air and sauntered slowly over toward the train station where freight manager Floyd Haskins was still standing in the street soaking up some early spring sun.

“How ya’ doin’ there, Floydy boy?”

Haskins turned quickly, startled. He was a medium sized man with a beer belly and grease coating both his hands and face.

“Oh, Sheriff, I didn’t hear ya’ coming.”

“Yeah, I always had this problem ’bout bein’ so light on my feet.”

Haskins mopped his brow with a sleeve of his soiled work jacket. “So what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I want to talk to ya’ ’bout those five guys who just arrived on the train.”

“The oil men?”

Tyler spit onto the road beneath him. “Yeah.” Here, he might have pulled out a notebook—if he had one. But Bugsy had given up carrying it a few years back when he realized he couldn’t read his own writing.

“What do ya’ want to know about them?”

“Anything strange, anything that stands out in your mind. Did one of ’em have tits? Did one of ’em have a glass eye? Did one of ’em play with his balls? Did one of ’em say something when they didn’t think nobody was around when, of course, you was?” Indeed, Floyd Haskins was the biggest busybody in Crescent Falls.

“Not that I recall, Sheriff. But I was only around them the last half hour or so. You’d be better off askin’ the conductor.”

“He don’t know shit and he wouldn’t tell me if he did. Besides, Floyd buddy, I got a lot more faith in your word.” Tyler slapped Haskins lightly on the back. Lightly because a normal slap for Bugsy was a severe jolt for the person it connected with. “I know you see things nobody else in this town does.” Even if sometimes they’re not there, Tyler thought to himself.

“Much obliged, Sheriff, much obliged. But it’s like I said; there was nothing unusual about these guys. Nothing at all.” Haskins fingered his chin. “Well, except …”

“’Cept what?” Tyler asked eagerly, moving closer.

“Their equipment. It was all crated up.”

“How else was it supposed to get here?” Tyler felt a rush of disappointment surge through him. Again he released a wad of spittle, heavier this time.

“No, Sheriff, you don’t understand. The crates were sent direct to Omaha by the manufacturer and then forwarded here on the same train as the oil men. They still had the manufacturer’s labels on them. Hell, Sheriff, that means they ain’t never been opened before.”

Tyler raised his bushy eyebrows. “So these five oil experts came into town with a truckload of equipment that ain’t never been used?”

Haskins nodded. “Yup. That’s the size of it.”

“Sounds kind of strange, don’t it? You sure every crate had the labels still on ’em?”

“Absolutely.” Haskins winked. “I took the liberty of checkin’. What’s it mean, Sheriff?”

“That sometimes cellar rats give ’way their presence by leavin’ turds out in the open.”

“Huh?”

But Tyler had already turned and walked off.

Eleven

“SEIF JUST CALLED IN from Jerusalem,” said Mohammed al-Kahir, taking a seat along with the other two men in the small Boston restaurant.

“And what is the news?” asked the Red Prince, glancing around the virtually deserted dining room. Only two other tables were occupied.

“He isn’t sure what to report. The bomb went off, but not as planned. We know for a fact that Rabanine’s son was injured, perhaps killed. But the extent of Rabanine’s injuries are not known at this time.”

“But he will live.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Should I have Seif make another attempt?”

“No, his efforts are needed elsewhere. We will coordinate something from this end. We have Rabanine’s itinerary?”

“We will soon. But we are already certain he’ll be coming into New York.”

“Good. I’ll contact our people there and have them handle things. That way, Seif can turn his attentions solely to Alabaster. After all, it is he who is the threat to us, not Rabanine.”

“I’m not so sure we have to worry about Alabaster,” said al-Kahir. “There are thousands of Western intelligence agents searching for him now. They have not a single clue where to look. It would seem that Alabaster does not want to be found. If he was going to pose a threat to us, he’d have surfaced already.”

“All the same,” Salameh persisted, “I want Seif there if he does surface.”

“As you wish.”

The Red Prince turned toward Hussein El Sayad. “And what is the news from Washington?”

El Sayad lifted his useless arm onto the table, aware that it had been dangling freely in the air. “Our source in the CIA says that the Agency has received the boy’s pictures and has inspected them. They know we are in the country, but little else, and nothing apparently of the Shaitan Commandment.”

“What actions have they taken?”

“None besides those we have already discussed. The Mossad has been contacted. A message was sent to David Rabanine. And everyone in Israel is trying to make contact with Alabaster.”

“Since they are failing,” Salameh noted, “I’d assume their current state is bordering on panic.”

“It is. They know their nation’s security is about to be threatened severely but they have no idea how.”

“If it wasn’t for the damned film, they wouldn’t even suspect. That damned boy. …” The Red Prince pulled a slender cigarette from a pack that lay on the table. In seconds it was twirling through his fingers. “Hussein, is it true the boy was a Jew?”

El Sayad was taken slightly aback by the question. “We think so, yes. But, Ali, he was only a boy.”

“So were my sons. Are they not dead as well?”

El Sayad said nothing.

Salameh switched the unlit cigarette from one hand to the other, splitting the filter in the process. “Now, Hussein, tell me of the men you sent to obtain the rolls of film so that they wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“Free lancers,” the cripple responded, aware he was being ridiculed for the choice. “They came reasonably well-recommended by the KGB. Unluckily, they didn’t track the film down until it was already in the hands of a Providence policeman. They’ve been keeping close tabs on both the woman and the detective assigned to the case since.”

“And?”

“They are getting nowhere.”

“Are their deaths called for?”

“Not for the time being. It would lead to too many questions being asked and would create more problems than it would solve. The free lancers prefer to arrange a couple of convenient accidents. It will be better that way.”

“We won’t need these free lancers much longer anyway,” said Mohammed al-Kahir. “Tebara’s force should be ready before long.”

“Ah yes, Tebara,” said Salameh. “What’s the latest news from him?”

“The recruiting process is going along smoothly. He should be able to start training the men and women within ten days.”

“He will not have much time with them.”

“He will have enough.”

Salameh moved the cigarette from his left hand to his right, treating it like a baton. “What else do you have to report?”

Al-Kahir leaned forward. “All arrangements have been made for the Shaitan force of 175 to enter America on seventeen different airlines beginning seven weeks from today and ending seven weeks from tomorrow. They will be arriving from twenty-three different countries in no specific pattern, the idea being to make it impossible for Washington or Tel Aviv to find any link between them. They are just ordinary American tourists returning to their country after an extended vacation.”

“Their papers have been put in order?”

“All but a few. The rest will be completed within three days.”

The Red Prince nodded, allowing himself a small flash of a smile. “And what of the five men whose instructions differed from the rest?”

“By now, they have already reached the target area. I had them rendezvous in Omaha, Nebraska in order to allow them to arrive at the test site together. That way, we can be sure their cover has been and will be maintained. Their initial reports will be coming in within a few days. We should anticipate no problems.”

“What of their weapons?” asked Hussein El Sayad, looking at the Red Prince. “You said the Shaitan force was going to be issued certain weapons.”

“Not exactly,” Salameh corrected. “In fact, I made mention of something else entirely—I said they possessed a weapon. It will come with them into the country.”

“Past customs?”

“Past customs. Right, Mohammed?”

“I made their arrangements according to your specifications,” reassured the planner.

“The customs officials will not know they are looking at the most deadly weapon ever conceived by man, if they even notice it at all,” boasted Salameh.

“I think it’s time you became more specific,” nagged El Sayad.

“It is not the right moment.”

“When will the right moment come?”

“Do not badger me, Hussein.”

“I do not mean to,” the cripple shot back, feeling bold. “But I must question the manner in which you are handling this operation.”

“Question me and you question the Movement. … You know what that would mean, don’t you, Hussein?”

“I was about to pose the very same problem to you. You say that Yassir has given you total control over the Commandment. I question whether he knows any more about it than we do.”

“You are challenging me.”

“Call it what you like.”

“I do not enjoy being challenged.”

“And I do not enjoy being humiliated.” El Sayad looked at the gloved hand that sat motionless on the table. “I do not have the status in the Movement I had five years ago. But my word still carries quite a bit of weight with Arafat. … I am thinking of contacting him.” The cripple took a hefty gulp of air.

Salameh’s expression wavered for the first time. “Then why not place the call from my room at the hotel? That way, both of us will be able to speak with him. I would suggest, though, that your interests would be better served if you merely followed through on the instructions I have given you. After all, a call to Yassir would signify an ultimatum to him: Either you or I must go. If you are correct in your suspicions, you will end up a hero. If you are wrong, you will end up a corpse.”

El Sayad felt his momentary bravura vanish, replaced by a chill in his veins. His eyes left Salameh’s and looked into the empty plate beneath him.

“I assume your lack of response means you have come to see things my way,” the Red Prince continued. “Believe me, it is the best thing. Yassir authorizes every move I make. We are in constant touch. The operation is his as much as mine. Yet, Hussein, your words have provided me with an idea.” Salameh turned back to al-Kahir. “Mohammed, we must assume the worst—that Alabaster will be found and that he will agree to help the Americans, in which case he might succeed in picking up our trail.”

“So?”

“We must lay another trail along side it, one that will lead the great Israeli where we want him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

At two PM sharp, Leslie Kirkman dialed the Providence police department and asked for Sergeant Phil Scarpani.

“Hello.” A male voice had gotten on the line but it was not Scarpani’s.

“I’m looking for Sergeant Scarpani,” Leslie said anxiously.

“So am I, lady.”

“Where is he?” she asked feeling her teeth rub against her lower lip.

“I wish I knew. He took off about noontime. Someone downstairs said he decided to take a vacation. He had a lot of weeks coming. Last minute plans, I guess.”

“That can’t be. You don’t understand, we had an appointment at two o’clock.”

“Hold on, ma’am,” said the officer on the other end. “I’ll check his calendar. A brief pause and then he was back on. “Look, ah—”

“Leslie Kirkman.”

“Look Mrs. Kirkman, the page for today has been ripped out. Phil must have spilled something on it. I guess you can consider the meeting cancelled.”

“But he wouldn’t do that!” Leslie lowered her voice. “It was a crucial meeting for both of us. We had something very important to discuss.”

“More important for you than him, it seems. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Phil and I, Mrs. Kirkman, we go back a long way. Just tell me how I can help you.”

“Get me a meeting with our superior and tell him it’s urgent,” Leslie said firmly. She needed help. Phil was gone, certainly not of his own will which meant they had him.

“When?”

“Now.”

The office was little bigger than a closet but neat and in a policeman’s sense, Leslie guessed, plush.

“I’m Lieutenant John Lucas,” said a round-shouldered, balding man as he rose from behind a desk that was fashioned from imitation wood.

Leslie took his hand and then seated herself in the black vinyl chair in front of his desk. “You’re Sergeant Scarpani’s superior, I presume.”

“Yes, and you’re the woman who claims she had vital business to talk over with him,” Lucas said coldly. His dome was totally bald and he had nothing but stubble on either side of his head for hair. He wore a white, wrinkled shirt and thick blue tie complete with J.C. Penny clip. He stank of cheap aftershave lotion.

Leslie nodded. “I want to know what happened to Sergeant Scarpani.”

“He went on vacation, effective this noontime. He had quite a bit of time built-up and he’s been putting in a lot of extra hours lately.”

“We had an appointment he wouldn’t have broken … unless he was forced to,” Leslie said already sure she had come to the wrong place for help.

Lucas chuckled snidely. “I assure you, Mrs. Kirkman, no one forced Phil to break any appointment. I’m sure he did so on his own. Obviously, he didn’t share your enthusiasm for the topic of this appointment you claim existed. Maybe you just got your days mixed-up.”

“The only thing mixed-up around here are the people who are doing a pretty poor job of hiding something,” Leslie charged. “Lieutenant, I happen to be a reporter for the Journal and you can bet I’m going to find out what that ‘something’ is with or without your help.”

Lucas whitened a bit. “Why don’t you let me try to help? Tell me why you and Scarpani had that appointment scheduled.”

“You’re not going to like this. …” Leslie told him everything; beginning with Scott Krassner’s murder, Scarpani’s suspicions, the hotel, the refusal of the FBI to identify the five men in the picture. “I hope you understand that was a capsulized version,” she said at the end.

“It’s quite a story, all the same.”

“So now you know everything that’s happened and I’d like to know what you plan to do about it.”

Lucas waved a hand before him. “Now hold on just a minute. All I know is everything you say has happened. But there’s no one and nothing to back up your rather incredible tale.”

“Phil would but he’s—”

“—on vacation,” Lucas completed.

“Bullshit! What have you done with him, Lieutenant? If you really are a lieutenant, that is. How are you connected in all this?”

“I resent that, Mrs.—”

“And I resent your damned patronizing attitude. Your act of innocence isn’t working. You know more about all this than I do. You just won’t admit it.”

Lucas’ eyes flared. “The only thing I’ll admit is that your story is so full of discrepancies that even the National Enquirer wouldn’t buy it. First off, you say that Sergeant Scarpani began a homicide investigation into the accidental death of a boy named Scott Krassner. But his signed report—that’s signed report, Mrs. Kirkman—reads negligent homicide caused by hit-and-run. You also say that this boy was killed because he took a series of pictures he shouldn’t have—four rolls to be exact which were later forwarded to the FBI in Washington. But we have no voucher and there’s no record of the film ever being sent.”

Was Lucas really saying this? “The negatives!” Leslie screamed, lifting herself from the daze the lieutenant’s words had lulled her into. “Phil put them in his drawer. He told me!”

Lucas picked up the phone and dialed one number. “Yeah, Steve, you wanna check Scarpani’s desk for some color negatives.” A pause. “Not there? Okay, thanks.” Lucas turned back to Leslie. “No negatives, Mrs. Kirkman.”

Leslie shook her head, her fiery rage unable to dim her reason. “If the pictures never existed, how did you know the negatives were color?”

Lucas licked his lips. “Look, Mrs. Kirkman, you come in here with some whale ass story and expect me to believe it with absolutely no substantiating proof at all. I’m just trying to help.”

“Or go through the motions.”

“Call it what you want but I’m a busy man. I can’t spend time with every crackpot who comes into my office.”

“You have plenty of time for yourself.” Leslie watched Lucas’ features explode. She spoke again before he had a chance to. “And what about the terrorists, Lieutenant? Are you going to ignore them too? Or maybe you’re working for them.”

“Ah yes, these child-murdering terrorists of yours. And Arabs no less. Probably the top of the line sent over to shock the world by doing some dastardly deed in Providence, Rhode Island. Not exactly a great city to gain international exposure, wouldn’t you say?”

“Which is exactly why they chose it.”

“And registered under the name of ‘Mote’ at the Biltmore which just happens to be the Arabic word for death?”

“That’s right, Lieutenant.”

“So our terrorist friends decided to give themselves away.”

“They had no way of knowing we’d be on to them.”

“But they killed a young boy to make sure we got a big lead.”

“He took their picture. They couldn’t chance being recognized. They panicked.”

Lucas was nodding sarcastically. “Now I get it. Five international terrorists come to Providence to plan some murderous strike and panic when a thirteen-year-old boy snaps their picture. That makes as much sense as anything else you’ve said.” Lucas thrust an accusing finger forward. “Look, Mrs. Kirkman, I’m going to prove to you once and for all that your terrorist story is a lot of crap. Then you are going to leave this office and never return and feel very lucky that I don’t find some reason to put you away in a padded room for a while.” Lucas picked up the phone before him. Leslie watched him dial a number. “Hello, Biltmore, this is Lieutenant John Lucas from the Providence Police Department. I’d like the reservations manager please.”

Leslie’s eyes met the lieutenant’s. The seething grasp held.

“Yeah, Henry,” Lucas resumed, “I wonder if you could tell me if you had a reservation in the name of Mote any time in the past month. … Sure, I’ll wait.” The seconds stretched into a few long minutes. “I see. Thanks a lot, Henry.”

Lucas hung up the phone and brought his eyes up to meet Leslie’s again. Triumph shone in them. “Henry Platt, the reservations manager over at the Biltmore, says that no room or suite has been booked in the name of Mote since the hotel opened.”