Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (144 page)

Her eyes flickered to the window again. Impossible as it
seemed, the plane was
still
descending; the water seemed close
enough for her to touch the tops of the waves. Then, merci
fully, the grey concrete runway rushed to meet the plane, the
wheels bounced twice, then held. She let out a deep sigh of
relief. Israel. She was back at long last.

And quite suddenly, for no apparent reason, she had the
peculiar sensation of time compressing, that she'd really left
here only yesterday and was returning a bare day later. But of
course, that was silly. Even the plane belied that illusion.
She'd left on a battered old DC-3 and was returning by sleek
jumbo jet. A lot of years had sped by in between.

He could see that they were all in position, scattered at stra
tegic intervals throughout Ben-Gurion Airport. As he passed the familiar faces while hurrying to keep pace with the handsome young El Al VIP representative, Khalid Khazzan's eyes
did not so much as give a flicker of recognition, nor did they seem to notice him. They were there merely as backups, and
nothing about any of them could tie them all together. If one fell, he or she wouldn't be taking the rest of them down too.
Striding through the busy terminal, Khalid could feel the
VIP representative's occasional sidelong glances, but he felt
no undue cause for alarm. They were merely curious
appraisals, he thought; all first-class passengers probably got
them.

But something was bothering the VIP representative; some
thing did not sit right, and kept gnawing elusively at his mind.
There's something about that man that seems curiously fam
iliar, Elie Levin couldn't help thinking. I could swear I've seen
his face before, somewhere. But where? And why can't I place
him?

Elie's dark eyes slid sideways again. The businessman had a slightly olive complexion; perhaps he was of Italian, Arab, or Jewish descent, though it was difficult to guess. Especially
with Americans, which the man's passport proclaimed him to
be. But he was definitely a business man, and a successful
one at that, judging from his self-assured swagger, first-class
ticket, and well-tailored brand-new suit.

Now that he thought about it, Elie realized that everything
the man was wearing or carrying was brand-new: his gleaming
shoes, his shirt, even the moulded grey Samsonite briefcase
which had ridden through the X-ray machine with total inno
cence. It was almost as if everything he had on had just been
unwrapped.

Is that what bothers me about him? Elie asked himself.
Because everything is too new?

Elie laughed to himself. This surely proved that his job
was starting to get to him. The airport's elaborate security
precautions and his own antiterrorist training were beginning
to spook him, he decided. It made him look constantly over
his shoulders and eye everyone with suspicion. He was starting
to see ghosts everywhere. His mother always did say he had a
vivid imagination.

But why then, he asked himself, are my hands so clammy?
Why do I feel those ripples of static raising the hairs at the
nape of my neck?'

Because you've got an overactive imagination, he answered
himself.

Elie Levin would have no time to regret ignoring the warn
ing bells that jangled in his mind. A group of tourists was headed their way, strategically blocking their path. He and
the businessman had to skirt them, brushing the wall with their
shoulders.

And another thing, Elie thought suddenly. When the
businessman had walked through the finely tuned metal detec
tor, possibly the most finely tuned metal detector in the world, nothing had set it off. Not even loose change, a stainless watch,
or a bunch of keys.

Then, in front of him, another obstacle loomed in his path. A woman he didn't recognize, wearing a blue El Al uniform,
stood smiling professionally beside a door marked
auth
orized personnel only.
They would have to squeeze past her
in order to get around the horde of tourists.

Just as he and the businessman reached her, the woman's gracious smile widened and she pushed down on the door
handle. The door yawned wide in front of him.

Elie was trapped, sandwiched neatly between the half-open
door in front of him and the businessman behind him.

Quicker than the eye could catch it, the businessman
elbowed him savagely and thrust him expertly sideways into
the dark little room. Elie's breath was knocked out of him. He let out a grunt and doubled over. The door shut with a
snap of finality.

A moment later, the overhead fluorescents flickered on.

'Khalid!' Recognition suddenly dawned on Elie. In that split
second he knew where he had seen that face before: countless times, but never clean-shaven. In all the blurry photographs, the terrorist had been bearded, dressed in army fatigues and
the traditional Arab headgear.

But it was too late. That split-second recognition, and that
one fearfully whispered name, were the last things Elie Levin ever experienced. Khalid's blurring palm, expertly chopping
his throat, cut off any further sound, and then a powerful
elbow scissored around his neck. Elie's eyes widened, and he
wanted to scream his terror. But then his bones crackled and
snapped, and he slid, limp as a rag doll, lifelessly to the floor.

Death had been instantaneous.

Three minutes later, dressed in Elie's spotless uniform,
Khalid stepped casually back out into the terminal, adjusted
his tie, and remembered just in time to unpin Elie's name tag. He slipped it into his pocket and strode confidently toward the
arrivals section.

He glanced up at the overhead monitors and smiled with satisfaction. Trust the Israelis, he thought. Flight 1002 from
New York had put down right on the button.

Daliah was the first passenger off the plane, and she was grati
fied to see that, just as Patsy's secretary had arranged, a VIP
representative was waiting at the door. She favoured him with
a warm, grateful smile.

He smiled pleasantly enough back at her, but she was aware
of curiously cool, appraising eyes. 'If you'll give me your passport and baggage claims, Miss Boralevi,' he said, 'we can skip
the usual formalities.'

She nodded, dug into her bag, and handed over her ticket
folder and Israeli passport in the thin Mark Cross leather
sheath with gold corners, a Christmas present from Jerome,
and yet another reminder of him she would have to pack away
and hide. The VIP representative was the model of
efficiency; she had to hurry to keep pace with him as he
marched her swiftly past the backed-up line of passengers from
an Athens flight. He flashed her open passport to an official
behind the counter and then guided her through the noisy
terminal, making a beeline for the exits.

The big terminal was crowded with arriving and departing
passengers. Daliah glanced round. The signs in Hebrew
brought a lump to her throat.
Home. Home at long last.

The sliding exit doors were approaching, and she fell back
from the VIP representative.

'Wait!' Her voice stopped him.

He was sliding her passport and the ticket folder with the
stapled-on luggage claims inside his jacket pocket.

'What about my luggage?' she asked. 'And I need my
passport!'

His smile was cemented in place. 'I'll have the baggage
delivered to you by special courier within the hour,' he said
reasonably. 'The same goes for your passport. Our first consideration is you. We have to be very security-conscious, and
you, Miss Boralevi, are a very important national treasure. El
Al does not like highly visible celebrities, especially one such
as yourself who hails from a prominent family, to be unnecess
arily exposed to possible danger in public areas.' His smile never left his face, that unsettling scimitar smile which held
no warmth. Also, there was something about the way he
looked at her, something mocking and unpleasant.

'Surely there's a VIP lounge,' she said. 'I can wait there
while you get the luggage, and save you a lot of trouble.
Besides, I can't walk around without my passport. If I remem
ber right, it's against the law here not to carry identification
papers on you at all times.'

'Don't worry. I have strict orders, and your safety is our
sole concern. The car is waiting outside.'

The car filled with her family, come to welcome her home!
Without further delay, she rushed forward and burst outside.

The VIP representative was right behind her, guiding her
toward a shiny old Chrysler limousine at the kerb. Still smiling,
he gripped the chrome handle and yanked open the rear door.

Daliah ducked inside the big car. Then she froze, half in, half out, staring into the barrel of a .44 Magnum revolver.

The stranger holding the gun gave her a ghastly smile. 'Wel
come to Israel, Miss Boralevi.'

Finally she realized what was happening.

If Daliah's beauty and talent could be attributed to her
mother, then it was from her father, Dani, that she had
inherited her almost Germanic streak of obsessive, stopwatch
punctuality. Never once, in all the years she had lived at home,
had she ever known him to miss a single flight or a train, or
arrive late for any appointment. It wasn't his fault today that
he and Tamara got to the airport late. They had left with
plenty of time to spare, and there were just the two of them. Dani was driving the big black Cadillac de Ville, borrowed from the State Department, and Tamara sat up front on the
bone-coloured leather seat beside him. At the breakfast table,
Ari and his fiancée, Sissi Herschritt, had communicated something between themselves with their eyes, and had begged off.

'There are some more things we've got to hang up,' Ari
explained.