FOURTEEN.

    David's demeanor was calm though perhaps slightly distracted as he walked down Via Dolorosa, passing from the Muslim Quarter of the Old City to the Christian Quarter. It was a walk he'd taken countless times. In his youth he did so without a care in the world, but as he grew older he began to see things, to notice the dangers that lurked in the entry ways of the storefronts, in the eyes of the old men selling fruit and nuts on the street and the women running errands. There were spies and informants everywhere. It was in the thirteenth year of his life that innocence had been beaten from his body. He still carried scars from that day, both physical and mental, but he never spoke of them.

    The eyes of the street spies no longer intimidated David as they had in the years after the beating. He was above reproach by such people.

    If he chose he could have any one of them killed with a single order, but that was not who Jabril Khatabi was. His parents had raised someone infinitely more judicious. He used his power with great care, discretion and patience. Now more than ever he needed those three traits.

    More than twenty years past, he had been walking down this same street in Jerusalem when he had been snatched in broad daylight and thrown into the trunk of a car. His own people thought he had been collaborating with the Jews. Back then they had been wrong. David had been nothing more than an innocent boy, walking through the Old City on his way to meet his mother at the hospital. Today all was different. If the PLO or Hamas, or Hezbollah or any one of a dozen groups had any idea what he was up to they would torture him until he begged to die.

    Casually, he took a right onto Bab El Jadid and eyed the checkpoint up ahead. The Old City was surrounded by a fortress like wall constructed by Suleiman the Magnificent in A.D. 1540. Through this wall there were just seven gates. It was through these gates, over the centuries, that the conquerors had controlled who and what came and went from the city.

    In the last century alone the city had been guarded by four countries; the Turks, the Brits, the Jordanians and now the Israelis manned the ramparts. Soldiers from the Israeli Defense Forces, dressed in green uniforms and bulbous helmets, checked the IDs of everyone trying to enter and leave the city. David remained calm as he continued toward the gate and his meeting just beyond.

    There were many informants lurking about on this stretch of his journey. The Arab eyes were always watchful, reporting everything they saw or suspected to the Palestine Liberation Organization. The distrustful eyes of his brethren haunted him, reminding him of the need for his mission to succeed. The Palestinian people needed to bury their hatred if they ever truly wanted peace for their children, but in history's most oxymoronic way they would first have to wage war.

    At this appointed hour, however, David suspected that there were also at least an equal number of Jewish eyes about. They wouldn't know who he was or the importance of the errand that he was on, though, for he was far too valuable to be trusted with any but Mossad's best and bravest.

    Mossad, Israel 's vaunted intelligence service, did not suffer the counterintelligence woes of other countries due to the simple fact that their agents were fiercely loyal to both country and cause. They were, however, not entirely out of harm's way. Agents had been kidnapped by Israel 's various enemies and made to reveal valuable secrets. That was more than reason enough for David's contact to hold very close to his vest the identity of his most prized asset.

    As David approached the New Gate, which had been cut into the wall of the Old City in 1887, he readied his papers. He presented them to a young Israeli soldier and was allowed to pass. He quickly crossed the street and after once again presenting his papers he was admitted onto foreign soil.

    Notre Dame de France was owned by the Catholic Church and housed among many things the papal delegation to Christendom's holiest city. David's excuse for visiting such a place was less awkward than it might seem. He had explained many times to his Palestinian brethren that the delegation also held a branch office of the Vatican Bank. And no one, not even the Swiss, were as discreet when it came to banking matters as the Vatican. The leadership of the PLO did not question David in this regard. As long as he kept raising capital and funding their operations, they had little interest in the intricacies of international finance.

    David was met by a youthful priest from Italy and escorted to the second-floor office of Monsignor Terrence Lavin. The short and portly Monsignor tore his spectacles from his face and stood to greet his handsome guest.

    "Jabril, how are you, my son?"

    David clasped the Monsignor pale fleshy hand.

    "I am well, Terence, and you?"

    Looking up with his sparkling blue eyes, the older man said, "I would be better if we were having some fine French cuisine downstairs, but I have been told I am not allowed to ply you with food and wine today." The priest looked quickly at the closed door behind him and made a face.

    Raising a conspiratorial eyebrow, David shrugged and said, "I would very much like that, but I'm afraid our mutual friend is calling the shots." David enjoyed Monsignor Lavin very much. A true Renaissance man, as they liked to say in the Church, he held advanced degrees in law, finance, theology and philosophy and was a connoisseur of fine wine, good food and classical music. David had met him many years ago through his parents and had often looked to the worldly priest to help expand his mind.

    "Well," commented Lavin, "we will have to reschedule when you have some time." The priest grabbed a file from his desk and said, "The business that we supposedly discussed today." He handed it to David.

    "I've prepared a report of your holdings with us and how they've performed over the last month. The standard stuff. Take a look at it before you leave, in case your friends decide today is the day they feel like being educated. "With that Lavin led his visitor to a dark-stained, heavy wood door behind his desk and opened it.

    David thanked him and stepped into the shadowy windowless room. The Vatican took their security as seriously as any great nation.

    They had secrets that needed to be kept, relationships that needed to be cloaked and enemies that were none too fond of them. David had come to this room many times. Located on the interior of the second floor, its four walls were covered with massive old tapestries that he guessed hid counter-bugging devices. Like much of Jerusalem it smelled old. On this day, as on many others, the stale odor made him think of death.

    An old wisp of a man sat silently at the far end of the table. A yellowed lamp in the corner cast a faint glow. The man's name was Abe Spielman. David had known him now for twenty-two years. Father Lavin had introduced them to each other, and David had never bothered to ask if that introduction was of the priest's own volition or if Spielman had pushed for it. Lavin had always acted as if it were his idea, but now that he was older and a bit wiser, David would have to guess that it was Spielman who had wanted to meet him. It would be very much in character with the old man. He was infinitely patient and had a knack for judging both people and situations far in advance of others.

    Abe Spielman was a spy. At eighty-one he'd slowed down quite a bit, and if people took that to mean he was less than sharp that was fine with him. He had spent an entire career trying to get his adversaries to underestimate him, and to a great extent he'd succeeded.

    You wouldn't know it by looking at this gentle grandfatherly figure, but there had been a time when Abe Spielman had been a warrior of the finest order, both for Britain in World War II and then again during his country's fight for independence in 1948. His bravery throughout those heady days was legendary.

    It was after the War of Independence that Spielman retreated into the shadows and went to work for his new country's intelligence service.

    He went on to become one of Mossad's most highly decorated operatives, but only a few people actually knew of his exploits and most of them

    were dead or near death.

    Abe Spielman was a scholar. A writer of books and a professor of theology and history, who just so happened to moonlight as a spy. Or vice versa. He gazed down the length of the heavy wood table. The sight of the young man before him, so full of vigor and youth, reminded him of just how old he was.

    "Excuse me for not getting up to greet you, Jabril. "The voice was raspy and slightly unsteady.

    "Don't be silly, Abe," laughed David.

    "You don't need to get up for me." He crossed around the room and extended a warm hand.

    Spielman took it weakly in his own and said, "Please sit. Tell me how you've been, my friend."

    "I've been fine." David dropped gracefully into the chair on Spiel-man's left.

    "And you?"

    "Fine." He clasped his hands and added, "My graduate assistants do most of my work now so I can focus on my writing."

    "Is that good or bad?"

    Spielman frowned.

    "A bit of both, I suppose. I miss the kids mostly.

    Their youthful exuberance."

    "But you don't miss the politics of the university?" David knew that his old friend felt very strongly about the takeover of Hebrew University by the ultra-orthodox rabbis of his religion.

    "They will be the end of us all. You know it as well as I. The zealots of Judaism and the zealots of Islam will drive us all right into the abyss."

    David nodded knowingly. They had discussed it for years. After a long reflective moment he said, "If there were more people like us, peace wouldn't be such a problem."

    "Problem." Spielman wryly noted the use of the word in relation to peace. There was a time not so long ago when he thought he would see peace between the two peoples of Palestine, but now he felt that elusive prize slipping over the horizon. He'd dreamt of an armistice between Arabs and Jews for many years. He knew that for his tiny nation to survive long-term they would need to forge a real and lasting friendship with their neighbors. In recent years, though, that had all slipped away.

    "I do not think I will see peace in my lifetime."

    David noted that there was genuine sadness in the old man's eyes when he spoke. In an encouraging voice he said, "It might not be as far off as you think, Abe."

    Spielman shook his head.

    "No. There is no hope. Things are worse today than they have ever been short of the War of Independence.

    When teenage girls begin strapping bombs to themselves and blowing themselves up in public, we have reached a level of despair and hatred that the world has rarely seen."

    "Not even with the Nazis?" asked David a bit skeptically.

    "The Nazis were bullies; inhumane coldhearted butchers. They detested us, but in their minds we were beneath them." The professor paused for a moment and then added, "These martyrs that we are facing today hate us with every ounce of their being. But they also think that we are the villains, the cause of all their problems."

    He added sadly, "I warned my people years ago that these camps would someday be our undoing. Everyone ignored me, though. Apparently there were better things to spend our money on." Spielman frowned at the shortsightedness of politicians.

    "When you take away all hope, when you treat people as if they are no better than animals, undeserving of respect and compassion, do not be surprised one day when the whole lot of them rise up and shake off their bonds. It is the story of my own people being led from Egypt by Moses."

    "Except the Palestinians," added David, "are already home."

    "Exactly. They are not going anywhere. They want us to leave. For the first time they have seen hope in these so-called martyrs. They dance in the street when innocent Jewish women and children are killed."

    "Are not innocent Palestinian women and children killed by your tanks and your missiles?" David parried.

    Spielman eyed the younger man like a stern father.

    "You do not see Jews dancing in the street when a Palestinian baby is

    borne from the rubble."

    David nodded. It was an ugly reality that his people not only rationalized the murder of civilians, but celebrated each death as if it were a glorious event.

    "The day of a Palestinian state is not far off. The economy of Israel cannot hang on much longer. Tourism has all but withered away.

    If it were not for the Americans propping us up we wouldn't last more than a week. Yes, Jabril, you will get your state, and then there will be great bloodshed. Jewish settlers will refuse to leave the occupied territories and the bigots that your people look to for guidance will never be satisfied until all of Palestine is cleansed of Jewish blood. We will continue in this downward death spiral for years." He shook his head sadly.

    "And I'm afraid my people no longer have the stomach it will take for such a fight."

    David nodded thoughtfully. Everything the elderly Jew said he agreed with; especially the last part. It was, in fact, the reason why he was here.

    "I agree with much of what you say but I am not quite so fatalistic."

    "That is because you are young. You have many years ahead of you where I have only but a few. My faith in humanity has dwindled over this past decade. I feel as if we are settling into a dark period."

    David reached out for the old man's hand.

    "Do not give up hope just yet." With a smile he added, "A meeting is set to take place tomorrow evening." David pulled a small sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and slid it in front of Spielman. On the list were eight names that were sure to grab the professor's attention.

    Spielman donned a pair of reading glasses and glanced over the list.

    His mouth went completely dry. The list was a virtual who's who of terrorists in the occupied territories. It was more than he'd bargained for. When he began cultivating a relationship with Jabril many years ago he knew the young Palestinian had the potential to do great things. Jabril's parents were rationalists who placed a high value on education and shunned the violence and fiery rhetoric of the PLO. Spielman thought that Jabril might someday be a real leader of his people.

    But as much as he thought their friendship might someday bear the fruit of good intelligence, he never thought it would lead to such a staggering moment.

    Mossad had kept an eye on him, discovering only recently the young Palestinian's successes at raising money for the various terrorist groups. All the while, Spielman had kept the backdoor relationship open through Monsignor Lavin. Along the way it had been very beneficial.

    He had gained a true friend in Jabril; a pragmatist who believed in peace.

    Holding the piece of paper up in the air the sage Spielman said, "This is an interesting group."

    "Very."

    Spielman held the younger man in his gaze.

    "I suppose you wouldn't like to tell me where this meeting will be taking place?"

    David bit down on his lip, and after some serious consideration he slid a second piece of paper across the table. It contained a sketch and the dimensions of an attaché case.

    "I need two of them. Have your people build them to my specifications, and I will meet you here again tomorrow to discuss the details."

    Spielman cautiously surveyed the young Palestinian for a sign that his gesture was anything other than genuine, for if it was, Abe Spielman had just been given the golden nugget that every intelligence officer searches a lifetime for.