The Alexandria Link

The vacuous stare of an intelligence officer faded from Dixon’s attractive face. “You’ve been busy.”

“As have your people. Lots of chatter about Haddad the past few days.” She was actually at a disadvantage, because Lee Durant had been her contact point with the Israelis, and he hadn’t had a chance to report all of what he’d learned.

“What’s the American interest?” Dixon asked.

“Five years ago one of my agents almost died because of Haddad.”

“And then you hid the Palestinian away. Kept him all to yourself. And didn’t bother to tell your ally.”

Now they were getting to the meat of the coconut. “And you didn’t bother to tell us that you’d tried to blow the man up, along with my agent.”

“That, I know nothing about. Way out of the loop. But I do know that Haddad has surfaced, and we want him.”

“As do we.”

“What’s so important on your end?”

She couldn’t decide if Dixon was fishing or stalling.

“You tell me, Heather. Why did the Saudis bulldoze entire villages in west Arabia to the ground five years ago? Why is the Mossad focused on Haddad?”

She bored her gaze into her friend.

“Why did he need to die?”

A CALM FATALISM OVERTOOK MALONE. ONE RULE EVERYONE IN the intelligence business respected-Don’t screw with the Israelis. Malone had violated that wisdom when he’d allowed Israel to believe Haddad died in the bombed café. Now he knew that they knew. Lee Durant had said the Israelis were hyper, but he’d mentioned nothing about Haddad’s secrecy being compromised. Otherwise he would never have allowed Pam to come along.

“You really should lock your door,” the intruder declared. “All sorts of people could enter.”

“You have a name?” Malone asked.

“Call me Adam. She’s Eve.”

“Interesting labels for an Israeli assassination squad.”

“What do you mean?” Pam asked. “Assassination?”

He faced her. “They’ve come to finish what they started five years ago.” He turned toward Haddad, who showed not the slightest hint of fear. “What is it they want kept quiet?”

“The truth,” Haddad said.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Adam said. “I’m not a politico. Just hired help. My orders are to eliminate. You understand that, Malone. You were once in the business.”

Yes, he could relate. Pam, though, appeared to be another story.

“All of you are nuts,” she said. “You talk about killing like it’s just part of the job.”

“Actually,” Adam said, “it’s my only job.”

Malone had learned when he’d first started with the Magellan Billet that survival many times hinged on knowing when to hold and when to fold. As he stared at his old friend, a warrior of long standing, he saw that Haddad knew the time had come for him to choose.

“I’m sorry,” Malone whispered.

“Me, too, Cotton. But I made my decision when I placed the calls.”

Had he heard right? “Calls?”

“One awhile back, the other two recently. To the West Bank.”

“That was foolish, George.”

“Perhaps. But I knew you’d come.”

“Glad you did, ”cause I didn’t.“

Haddad’s gaze tightened. “You taught me a great deal. I recall every lesson, and up until a few days ago I adhered to them strictly. Even those about safeguarding what really matters.” The voice had grown dull and toneless.

“You should have called me first.”

Haddad shook his head. “I owe this to the Guardian I shot. My debt repaid.”

“What a contradiction,” Adam said. “A Palestinian with honor.”

“And an Israeli who murders,” Haddad said. “But we are what we are.”

Malone’s mind was clicking off possibilities. He had to do something, but Haddad seemed to sense his plotting. “You’ve done all you can. For now, at least.” Haddad motioned. “Look after her.”

“Cotton, you can’t just let them kill him,” Pam whispered, desperation in her voice.

“But he can,” Haddad said, a touch of bitterness in his tone. Then the Palestinian glared at Adam. “Might I say a final prayer?”

Adam gestured with the gun. “Who am I to deny such a reasonable request.”

Haddad stepped toward one of the wall chests and reached for a drawer. “I have a cushion in here that I kneel upon. May I?”

Adam shrugged.

Haddad slowly opened the drawer and used both hands to withdraw a crimson pillow. The old man then approached one of the windows and Malone watched as the pillow dropped to the floor.

A gun came into view.

Firmly grasped in Haddad’s right hand.

STEPHANIE WAITED FOR AN ANSWER TO HER QUESTION.

“Haddad is a threat to the security of Israel,” Dixon said. “He was five years ago, and he remains one today.”

“Care to explain?”

“Why aren’t you asking your own people this?”

She’d hoped to avoid this line of questioning but decided to be honest. “There’s a division.”

“And where are you among that division?”

“I have a former agent who’s in trouble. I intend to help him.”

“Cotton Malone. We know. But Malone knew what he was getting into when he hid Haddad.”

“His son didn’t.”

Dixon shrugged. “Several of my friends have died from terrorists.”

“A bit sanctimonious, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think so. The Palestinians leave us little choice in how to deal with them.”

“They’re doing nothing different from what the Jews did in 1948.” She couldn’t resist.

Dixon smirked. “If I’d known we were going to have this argument again, I wouldn’t have come.”

Stephanie knew Dixon didn’t want to hear about the terrorism of the late 1940s, which was far more Jewish than Arab in origin. But she wasn’t going to cut her friend any slack. “We can talk about the King David Hotel again if you want.”

The Jerusalem locale had served as British military and criminal investigative headquarters. After a local Jewish Agency was raided and sensitive documents removed to the hotel, militants retaliated with a bomb in July 1946. Ninety-one dead, forty-five injured, fifteen of the dead were Jews.

“The British were warned,” Dixon said. “Not our fault they chose to ignore it.”

“What does it matter if they were called?” she said. “It was an act of terrorism-Jew against Brit-a way to press your agenda. The Jews wanted the British and Arabs out of Palestine and they used whatever tactic worked. Just as Palestinians have tried for decades.”

Dixon shook her head. “I’m sick of hearing that crap. The nakba is a joke. Arabs fled Palestine in the 1940s on their own because they were scared to death. The rich ones panicked; the rest left after Arab leaders asked them to. They all honestly believed we’d be crushed in a few weeks. The ones who left went only a few miles into neighboring Arab states. And nobody, including you, ever talks about all the Jews who were forced from those same Arab states.” Dixon shrugged. “It’s like, So what? Who cares about them? But the poor pitiful Arabs. What a tragedy.”

“Take a man’s land and he’ll fight you forever.”

“We didn’t take anything. We bought the land, and most of it was uncultivated swamp and scrub nobody wanted. And by the way, eighty percent of those Arabs who left were peasants, nomads, or Bedouins. The landowners, the ones who raised so much hell, lived in Beirut, Cairo, and London.”

Stephanie had heard that before. “The Israeli party line never changes.”

“All the Arabs had to do,” Dixon said, “was accept the 1947 UN resolution that called for two states, one Arab, the other Jewish, and everybody would have won. But no. Absolutely not. No compromise. Repatriation was always and still is a condition prerequisite to any discussion, and that’s not going to happen. Israel is a reality that will not disappear. It’s sickening how everybody feels for the Arabs. They live in camps as refugees because the Arab leadership likes that. If they didn’t, they’d do something about it. Instead they use the camps, and the designated living zones, as a way to embarrass the world for what it did in 1948. Yet nobody, including America, ever chastises them.”