At Sword's Point by Katherine Kurtz, Scott MacMillan
Authors: Katherine Kurtz, Scott MacMillan
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anger as he saw the agent head up the side stairs and enter the house above the abandoned shop on street level. Sitting down at a small table outside a cafe across the street, he ordered a coffee from the Palestinian Christian owner and settled in to wait for the Mossad agent to come out again.
* * * *
"So, Eli, what have we got from the stamp man?" Golda Sapperstein said, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the one she had just finished.
The messenger handed her the folded fax. "I don't know, Major. I don't read them. I just deliver them."
Major Sapperstein coughed as she blew a lungful of smoke into the room. "Well," she said, "let's see what our man in Los Angeles has to say for himself." She unfolded the fax and read the message scrawled in Hebrew across the page.
Have interviewed subject and feel he was not aware of intended target of attempted hijack. I do not think subject will connect our visit with assassination attempt, nor do I feel subject will agree to work for us later. Please advise.
Sapperstein leaned back in her chair and rolled her cigarette between nicotine-stained fingers.
"Eli," she said after several minutes, "I want an opinion. We spent several years setting up a PLO hit man to take out a major player." She took a long drag on her cigarette. "Very clean operation. It would have looked like an airline hijacking that went sour. Everything goes according to plan, except that at the last minute, some schmuck cop takes out our man at thirty-five thousand feet.
"Now, that might be coincidence, except that when we check this putz out, we find that he's been fuckin' around Vienna with a lot of Nazi types. So we pick him up, ask him a few questions, and turn him loose—the usual." She fit another cigarette. "I don't like this dick-head wandering around. What do you think?"
"An eye for an eye. He cost us one of ours, so he pays." Eli scratched the back of his scarred hand. "They shoulda killed the goy."
Sapperstein stubbed out her cigarette and pulled a notepad out of her desk, scribbling a brief message in Hebrew.
"Here," she said, handing the message to Eli. "Take this to the stamp man and tell him it's for his customer in Los Angeles."
Outside, Father Archimedes watched as Eli came out of the safe house and headed back down the narrow street. At the bottom of the hill, he turned into the Jewish Quarter of the Old City and made his way through the winding lanes to Shapiro's stamp shop, unaware of his priestly shadow.
Shapiro was carefully lifting stamps out of an old album when Eli entered the shop.
"Hello," he said without bothering to look up. "I'll be right with you." Holding the stamp with a pair of tweezers, he carefully slipped it into a small glassine envelope before looking up at Eli.
"Well?" he said.
"My boss wants to sell some stamps. Said you might have a customer in Los Angeles who'd be interested."
Eli handed over Golda Sapperstein's message, which Shapiro read before answering.
"First-day covers with a double cancellation aren't much, but I'll see what I can do." Shapiro looked at his watch. "I'll send this now, but I wouldn't expect a reply for maybe a day. I'll call you if my client wants your stamps."
Eli left the shop and headed back up the hill toward the Christian quarter. As he passed by the small Orthodox Church of the Blessed Sorrows, two priests were coming out of the door. As Eli brushed past, one of the priests threw his thick silk cincture around the Mossad agent's throat, while the other drove his fist into the man's kidneys.
Eli sank to his knees without so much as a groan, and the two priests dragged him quickly into the church. Hustling him to a small stair behind the altar, they manhandled him down into the undercroft and from there into the crypt.
"Tie him to the chair, Dimitri," the taller of the priests said, his silk cincture still digging into Eli's neck.
The other priest looped half-hitches of rope around the subject's wrists, securing
* * * *
"So, Eli, what have we got from the stamp man?" Golda Sapperstein said, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the one she had just finished.
The messenger handed her the folded fax. "I don't know, Major. I don't read them. I just deliver them."
Major Sapperstein coughed as she blew a lungful of smoke into the room. "Well," she said, "let's see what our man in Los Angeles has to say for himself." She unfolded the fax and read the message scrawled in Hebrew across the page.
Have interviewed subject and feel he was not aware of intended target of attempted hijack. I do not think subject will connect our visit with assassination attempt, nor do I feel subject will agree to work for us later. Please advise.
Sapperstein leaned back in her chair and rolled her cigarette between nicotine-stained fingers.
"Eli," she said after several minutes, "I want an opinion. We spent several years setting up a PLO hit man to take out a major player." She took a long drag on her cigarette. "Very clean operation. It would have looked like an airline hijacking that went sour. Everything goes according to plan, except that at the last minute, some schmuck cop takes out our man at thirty-five thousand feet.
"Now, that might be coincidence, except that when we check this putz out, we find that he's been fuckin' around Vienna with a lot of Nazi types. So we pick him up, ask him a few questions, and turn him loose—the usual." She fit another cigarette. "I don't like this dick-head wandering around. What do you think?"
"An eye for an eye. He cost us one of ours, so he pays." Eli scratched the back of his scarred hand. "They shoulda killed the goy."
Sapperstein stubbed out her cigarette and pulled a notepad out of her desk, scribbling a brief message in Hebrew.
"Here," she said, handing the message to Eli. "Take this to the stamp man and tell him it's for his customer in Los Angeles."
Outside, Father Archimedes watched as Eli came out of the safe house and headed back down the narrow street. At the bottom of the hill, he turned into the Jewish Quarter of the Old City and made his way through the winding lanes to Shapiro's stamp shop, unaware of his priestly shadow.
Shapiro was carefully lifting stamps out of an old album when Eli entered the shop.
"Hello," he said without bothering to look up. "I'll be right with you." Holding the stamp with a pair of tweezers, he carefully slipped it into a small glassine envelope before looking up at Eli.
"Well?" he said.
"My boss wants to sell some stamps. Said you might have a customer in Los Angeles who'd be interested."
Eli handed over Golda Sapperstein's message, which Shapiro read before answering.
"First-day covers with a double cancellation aren't much, but I'll see what I can do." Shapiro looked at his watch. "I'll send this now, but I wouldn't expect a reply for maybe a day. I'll call you if my client wants your stamps."
Eli left the shop and headed back up the hill toward the Christian quarter. As he passed by the small Orthodox Church of the Blessed Sorrows, two priests were coming out of the door. As Eli brushed past, one of the priests threw his thick silk cincture around the Mossad agent's throat, while the other drove his fist into the man's kidneys.
Eli sank to his knees without so much as a groan, and the two priests dragged him quickly into the church. Hustling him to a small stair behind the altar, they manhandled him down into the undercroft and from there into the crypt.
"Tie him to the chair, Dimitri," the taller of the priests said, his silk cincture still digging into Eli's neck.
The other priest looped half-hitches of rope around the subject's wrists, securing
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