Killing for the Company

Luke wanted to follow them, but something held him back. Stalking Stratton was one thing; stalking a Mossad agent was quite another. Maya Bloom must have heard or seen something just now. If he pushed his luck, they’d be on to him. Given what he’d just heard, that wasn’t an option.

But something was happening. Luke didn’t know what, but it involved Alistair Stratton and it involved Maya Bloom. With Suze McArthur dead, he was the only one on to them.

Luke looked back towards the entrance to the church. He should get out of there — he’d pushed his luck already and if those two caught him there’d be fireworks. But something held him back. He had to know more. It was ten metres from here to the altar, to the left of which he saw a wooden door. He moved quietly towards it; seconds later he had his body pressed against the front wall of the church and was listening intently.

Maya Bloom was silent, but Luke could hear Stratton’s voice. He was talking quietly and the sound was muffled. Luke tried hard, but he couldn’t make anything out. Silence. Bloom spoke. Her voice was slightly clearer. ‘Where?’ she said.

It was about five seconds before Stratton replied, and because his response was just two words, clearly spoken, Luke reckoned he caught it: ‘Here. Jerusalem.’

Another silence, longer than the last.

‘When?’

The reply was indistinct again. If he hadn’t heard the word spoken at the briefing back in Hereford he’d probably have missed it.

‘Hanukkah.’

Another pause.

Stratton’s voice again: ‘The first day of the celebrations. One hour before midday.’

And then footsteps.

Luke sprinted lightly back to the column where he’d been hiding, then gave himself five seconds to listen. Nothing. And so, keeping in the shadows along the side of the church, he hurried silently back to the entrance.

A noise from the altar end. He froze. Stay fucking still, he told himself. If he moved, even slightly, he’d be clocked.

They were re-entering the main body of the church: Bloom first, Stratton second. Bloom was moving swiftly and even from this distance Luke could see that her face was severe. She turned to look at Stratton. He was strangely expressionless and for a few seconds an unanswered question seemed to hang in the air.

And then she turned. Without saying a word, she disappeared into the shadows beyond the altar. Stratton watched her go. For a dread-filled moment, he thought Stratton would see him. But he didn’t. Instead he faced the altar and bowed his head in quiet reverence.

Luke took his chance. He slipped towards the exit and seconds later he was outside, in the bright sunlight.

Finn looked narked. He raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for some sort of explanation of what his mate had just seen. But at that very moment Stratton stormed out of the church. He walked straight past them both without acknowledging their presence, and headed towards the exit of the Garden of Gethsemane.

‘Wanker,’ Finn muttered.

‘Wanker doesn’t come close.’ Together they followed their principal through the gnarled olive groves. As they went, Luke activated his comms. ‘Zero, this is Tango 17,’ he spoke into his radio mike. ‘The Cardinal’s leaving the garden now. We’re on our way.’

A brief pause and his earpiece crackled again.

‘Tango 17, this is Zero. Understood.’ A pause and then: ‘Get a fucking move on, Tango 17. This little detour’s already cost us two hours.’

Ten metres ahead, Stratton was walking through the gate and out into the street.

‘Roger that,’ Luke said. He gripped his 53 a little firmer. A voice in his head told him he might be needing it very soon.

TWENTY-FOUR

The young Palestinian crouched deep underground. He was sweating. Not because he was hot — there was no warmth down here — but because he was scared.

He could hear the scratching of rodents both behind him and up ahead, and occasionally he would see a scrawny rat scurrying in the beam of the battery-operated torch he was using to light his way. He didn’t like rats. The thought of their long, sinewy tails brushing against his skin made him shudder and he knew the stench that reeked in his nostrils was their droppings.

But it was not rats, or rat shit, that scared him.

The tunnels were, by rights, illegal, even though everyone knew they existed. From time to time the authorities cracked down. Not because they had any real objection to the existence of the tunnels, or their purpose; but because to arrest someone was a good way of extorting money from them. Fail to pay — and this young man did not have the means to do that — and you could be sure of ending up in a Gazan prison.

But it was not the threat of discovery that scared him either.

It was the threat of a sudden and stifling death.