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  Also he had a whole lot of far more important matters to deal with. The Chinese were again suspected of being involved in Pakistan’s nuclear agenda; both countries were secretly speaking to Iran, which was infuriating the Pentagon; and the Russians were refusing to admit they’d mislaid a Typhoon-Class ICBM submarine somewhere in the North Atlantic.

  There was also intense pressure on the NSA to tap into the SATCOMS systems of the stupid Brits, who were once again threatening to abandon their expensive Trident submarine fleet.

  And yet, Jimmy Ramshawe could not dismiss the activities of Ibrahim, Yousaf, Ben, and Abu Hassan from his mind. He believed they were somehow in Manhattan, mostly because of the hand grenade.

  He e-mailed Mack Bedford the signal from Islamabad and then called him. The two men spent a half-hour exploring the ramifications. Was it them? Are they in New York? What if they are? What if they’re not. And, as the New York Post so succinctly wondered, Who Bombed the John?

  At the end of their talk, Mack Bedford made one crucial observation. “That signal from Islamabad,” he said, “came, likely as not, from a person associated with the rebel forces in Pakistan—Taliban or al-Qaeda. Those nutters from the Swat Valley who have a lot of government support.

  “And whenever those guys start talking about anything connected with Israel, they’re never peaceful objectives. I can’t decipher that conversation. But I’d bet the Mossad was interested. Remember the Israeli Secret Service was right in the thick of it on the night those guys were last in court.

  “It’s not the worst thing in the world to play a hunch. I’ve saved my own life a few times doing that. And right now I think I might move down to Manhattan for a few days. See if I can locate those guys again—before they do something real bad.”

  “Will you check in?”

  “Uh-huh. Coupla days. Lemme know if anyone cracks that stuff from Islamabad.”

  MACK CHECKED INTO the Waldorf-Astoria the following day. He needed a place more like a city than a hotel, somewhere he could get lost. At lunchtime he strolled three blocks over to Second Avenue and then walked down to Forty-Third Street to the Consul General of Israel.

  He walked through security and reported to the desk holding a small sealed envelope he had prepared at the hotel. The name on the outside was Colonel Benjamin Shalit, and old friend with whom Mack had served in Afghanistan.

  Ben Shalit had been recruited to the Mossad five years ago, and had served in the Israeli Secret Police both in Tel Aviv and in various sections of the Middle East. They had appointed him to New York a couple of years before. Mack knew he was there but not what the former commando was doing.

  He understood it would have been pointless to ask to speak to him because the Israelis would never dream of admitting there was a Mossad field officer anywhere near their sunny tourist front office. Number 800 Second Avenue was strictly for passports, advice, hotels, visas, and tourist destinations.

  Men like Ben Shalit operated in the shadows, watching for danger, locating threats, observing suspected terrorists who might wish his nation harm. They had their own network, and in this building, even their own doorway, around the back of the building, because you never knew who might be watching.

  Mack Bedford had simply left the envelope at the desk and asked the doorman to have it delivered. Inside was simply a note asking Ben to call the Waldorf. Then he strolled back to the hotel and waited.

  At 4 p.m., the front desk called to inform him Mr. Shalit was here to see him, and to meet him at a table on the cocktail terrace.

  Mack’s former comrade-in-arms was a medium-sized man who was heavyset with a swarthy complexion and an unmistakable twinkle in his dark, deep-set eyes. Ben Shalit, now in his late thirties, had never married, having lived a life of constant upheaval in the service of his country.

  “I’ll say one thing, Benny,” said the American, “you look a whole lot better than you did last time I saw you.”

  “So do you,” replied the Israeli. They both recalled the bomb blast on the roadside in Kabul, which had capsized their jeep and flung them both out, leaving them covered in blood and dust but relatively unhurt, considering that four other men had been killed.

  Neither touched alcohol during working hours, so they settled for tea over a long talk about the situation in the Middle East, which neither of them thought was great.

  It was almost a quarter to five when Mack told his old buddy what he’d come for. “Benny,” he said, “I need to plug into the Israeli network that deals with national or local threat right here in New York.”

  “Well, I guess you’re in the right spot already,” the Israeli replied. “That’s my watch. My life, actually. What’s on your mind?”

  “I am, unofficially, on the lookout for four former prisoners recently freed from Guantanamo.”

  “Funny,” replied Ben. “So am I. But I have a special interest in two of them.”

  “You mean Ben al-Turabi and Abu Hassan Akbar?”

  “Correct. Two terrorists who committed two of the worst crimes in our history. And many more.”

  Mack nodded carefully. “They are traveling with a couple of guys in whom we have a special interest.”

  “That’d be Ibrahim Sharif and Yousaf Mohammed—coupla bombers from the mountains over there. Guess you guys were thrilled to bits when those judges let them go free.”

  “Oh, sure. Trouble is we think they are planning to take their revenge. And we think they might be here in New York.”

  “Did you pick ’em up in Mexico?”

  “We did. And we think they shot those two guards at the border.”

  “So do we. Which I guess brings us to the Penn Station bomb?”

  “We haven’t made much progress with that. But we now have a transcript of a phone conversation that linked up Islamabad and New York.”

  “Yup. Cyprus copied us on all that. We’re their nearest allies if push ever comes to shove. And you can bet when we saw the words ‘King Saul’ we stepped it up a few notches.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No more than you, I imagine. But we’re working on it.”

  “What are you planning to do with them if you find them?”

  “Us? We’ll take ’em out, no questions asked. All four. Save a lot of trouble. How about you?”

  “Same.”

  Mack poured more tea for them both. And then said, “How can I plug in? Follow you down the same road.”

  “Well, we’re not very far along. But, Mack, when you suspect there is a major terrorist hit being planned, there’s always a trail that leads to a big hunk of cash. These operations cost money. And you sometimes run into property deals. Because big plans need some kind of HQ.

  “And then there’s phones, air transport, other transportation, maybe cars to be bought and registered, meals, hotels, pay-offs, purchases of chemicals and electronics. It all adds up, ’specially if there’s four main guys and several assistants involved.”

  “How can I get into that trail?”

  “It’s hard for you. Easier for us.”

  “Will you give me a hand?”

  “Sure. We don’t care who kills them.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “You have to contact the Sayanim.”

  “The who?”

  “The Sayanim.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Mack, it’s the world-wide Jewish brotherhood, the Friends of Israel.”

  “They got offices right here in New York?”

  “Not quite. It’s probably the most secretive network in the world. They don’t have offices anywhere. And they don’t speak to anyone except when they are spoken to. They don’t even speak to each other.”

  “Sounds like a quiet group.”

  “That it is. It’s our global organization, private Jewish people who hold positions of power, or wealth, or authority, or maybe just responsibility. They are people who live abroad but are still devoted to Israel and what it means to all of us.”

&nbs
p; “Okay,” said Mack. “But what do they do?”

  “Mostly nothing. But they are always there, prepared to do everything in their power to help Israel, no questions asked. Like us, they work in the shadows.”

  “Then they are a secret society?”

  “They are much more secret than that. They have no structure. They are unknown soldiers fighting for a common cause, treasured by the Mossad, priceless to Israel’s government.”

  “How do we find them?”

  “By being careful. There are two thousand of them in New York City alone. Someone always knows someone.”

  “Are you a member of the Sayanim, Benny?”

  “I am still a serving officer. They have not invited me—yet. But in time they will.”

  “And what would happen if you refused?”

  “No one’s ever refused.”

  Mack sat in silence for a while, profoundly impressed by the enormity of Ben Shalit’s words. He’d served in Israel, worked with the Mossad, and he’d seen firsthand the atrocities committed against the nation of Israel. He understood their heartbreak and determination to live, and, if necessary, die, standing shoulder to shoulder against the Arab world.

  But to him, that whole scenario had often seemed remote and isolated. Everyone knew Israel had its back to the wall. But the brotherhood, the Sayanim, well, that was amazing. No wonder Israel managed to get its own way almost all of the time.

  “I am going to put you in touch with someone,” said Ben. “But you must be completely guarded in your questions to him. Remember, he will have only my word that you are safe and that we all fight on the same side against the scum of Gaza and the Afghan mountains.”

  “I am grateful for that,” said Ben. “But I’m not sure what to ask him.”

  “The man you will meet, right here in the city, will know more about a possible attack on New York than anyone else. The signal from Islamabad suggests a Jewish target—that bit about King Saul’s boys, and Abe’s place. Our man will have many lines of inquiry out there. If anyone can help, he can.”

  Mack stood, and Ben told him he would call in one hour with a name, place, and time. They shook hands and parted.

  IT WAS 8 P.M. and Mack climbed out of a taxi on West Houston Street, Lower Manhattan, as instructed, and headed toward Wooster Street, a boutique, art, and restaurant throughway in trendy SoHo.

  There was a buzz about the place but it was dark and the buildings, former industrial places that are now occupied as enormous loft apartments at astronomical rents, were tall and, to Mack, somewhat foreboding. But he was not a city boy. Indeed, he rarely went to cities without an express purpose of blowing out someone’s brains or capturing some restless, troublesome district by force of arms. Tonight he was not even armed, but as he stared up at the massive concrete and iron structures, he wished he were.

  Nonetheless, he strode fast down Wooster, heading south, seeking the address Ben Shalit had given him. When he found it, he was surprised. The sign above the door and steel-meshed picture window read BANDA FINE ARTS. For a moment Mack thought he was in the wrong place, but he re-checked the number and this was it.

  As far as he could tell, the art gallery was not even open. There was a single light somewhere in a back recess, but no one could call it inviting. Mack turned the handle and pushed open the door. He stepped into a gloomy, half-lit showroom, where, at the far end, behind a low desk lamp, he could see someone sitting.

  The lamp lit up the man’s chest and jacket, but his face was invisible. One hand was gently holding a drawing of some kind, the other was gripping a Browning automatic pistol, which was aimed straight at Mack’s head.

  Mack glanced left and right, and debated the best way to kill this faceless gunmen. But then a soft, refined voice said, “Are you Mack Bedford?”

  “Yup. You planning to shoot me or something?”

  The gunman laughed and put the offending weapon into his desk drawer. “I’m afraid you can’t be too careful these days,” he said.

  “You’re telling me, pal,” said Mack.

  From behind the desk, the man turned on another light and then walked out to shake Mack’s hand.

  “Good evening,” he said, “I’m John Strauss.”

  His grip was hard, and so were his brown eyes. Strauss was tall and athletic-looking, with well-cut, curly black hair. There was something about his bearing that Mack instinctively sensed was military. He also had a slight accent, and Mack guessed Israeli. Ben Shalit had the same intonations.

  Strauss walked over to the door and locked it, pulling down an inside blind. He led the way into a big room behind the art gallery, which was probably the finest room Mack had ever seen.

  There was something classic about it, although it had no windows. It had a wideboard polished oak floor with teak paneling on the walls. The beautiful Persian rug was patterned in deep red and blue. Mack was no expert on carpets, but he knew “sure as hell” that it had cost more than his car.

  A small log fire crackled in the wide brick fireplace, and a fine French sideboard, which Mack was sure cost more than his house, rested against the wall. He was not absolutely clear what this Strauss character really did for a living, but he sure got well paid for it.

  On the wall above the sideboard there hung three exquisitely framed sketches, and Mack had no doubt they were valuable. He stared at them for a few moments while Strauss walked to a decanter on the sideboard and poured two glasses of chilled white wine. Mack hesitated but accepted. “Come on, Mack,” said the art dealer. “Even a Navy SEAL can have a glass of Israeli dessert wine with a new friend.”

  Mack chuckled. “Those are really great drawings, John. I was just admiring them.”

  “Preliminary sketches for Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne,” he said. Mack didn’t have any background in art, but he’d heard of Titian, although he would not have recognized his work. All he knew of the artist was that all the girls he painted had dark red hair.

  “He’s one of the easiest artists to recognize,” said Strauss, “because of the amount of bucolic landscapes he almost always used, no matter what his subject. Do you know why that is?”

  “I’m sorry, John. It’s not really a subject I know anything about.”

  “Well, I know you did not come here to buy a print or a drawing, but I’ll tell you anyway. Titian was born in the Dolomite Mountains—that’s the last jagged peaks of the Alps, where they sweep down to the plains north of Venice. They influenced his work till the day he died.”

  “Funny, isn’t it,” said Mack, “the way we never forget where we come from.”

  Strauss nodded and sipped his wine. “And now, Mr. Bedford,” he said, suddenly slipping into a wryly formal mode, “you better tell me what you want.”

  “First thing I want is to know who you are. I’m guessing Benjamin told you all about me.”

  “He told me what you are working on. And I have to say you are right to be concerned about the four hoodlums who got out of Guantanamo Bay. You think they are in New York?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I know why?”

  “Well, who the hell else would be in Penn Station with a hand grenade? And where else would you be if you were planning a major hit on the USA? Also, one of my most reliable men thinks he saw one of them, that Ben al-Turabi, coming out of a bookstore on Fifth Avenue, midtown. That’s the sonofabitch who bombed the Park Hotel in Netanya. We had him once, and then you guys found a way to release him.”

  “Did your man get a chance to follow him? Were there any clues?”

  “No. He was across the street on the east side of Fifth Avenue. And al-Turabi came out and jumped into a black limo, which headed west at the next light. But our man was quite certain it was him.”

  Mack sipped his wine. “You keep speaking as if we are somehow separate. Come on, John, who are you?”

  “Because I have been told I can trust you with my life, I will tell you. I’m the head of the Sayanim in New York
.”

  “Ex-Mossad?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Some art dealer.”

  “It’s my hobby. And a useful front for my real activities.”

  “Can I know what they are?”

  “I’m involved with the relentless pursuit of those criminals who have committed crimes against my country. Killers who have blown up supermarkets, buses, synagogues, and hotels. Many of them end up here in New York, either temporarily or permanently. My task is to hunt them down.”

  “And then?”

  “To ensure they do not repeat their crimes. EVER!” John Strauss uttered that last word with such venom Mack was actually startled.

  “You mean, you do the deed?”

  “When I find them? No. I have a man to carry that out. A trained killer whom I trust more than I ever trusted any man.”

  “Benny?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Christ, John, I’m talking to the new Simon Wiesenthal.”

  “Well, there are similarities, I admit that. But Simon was a pure Nazi hunter, a scholar, who scoured the old records, and tried to bring them to justice, publicly to expose and humiliate the Germans.”

  “You mean your basic objectives are different?”

  “Most certainly. You see, terrorists do not represent a State. They represent a loose operation delighted to be publicized as killers and murderers. So there’s nothing in it for us, trying to humiliate them. They cannot be humiliated. Our objectives are simply to eliminate those who have killed and murdered on Israeli soil. And there’s a lot of them.”

  “So the only similarity between you and Wiesenthal is you are both hunters—but he basically displayed his prey, you kill it.”

  “Nicely stated. But remember, the Vienna bookseller was not averse to an execution, if the wheels of justice moved too slowly.”

  “I guess not. Did you ever meet him, John?”

  “No, to my great regret. I spoke to him a few times on the phone. But never in person. If I had met him, that would have been the greatest honor of my life.”