Scorpion's Advance (16 page)

Anderson showered while he waited for the police to arrive. He was putting his clothes back on when the wail of sirens cut the night air on Einstein. He went down to meet them.

As Langman's body was wheeled off the roof under a sheet on an ambulance transporter, Anderson reflected on how Cohen's body had been taken away in the same fashion. He could not avoid considering who might be next to lie under a sheet. He put a hand up to the back of his neck and rubbed it hard in a subconscious attempt to avert his train of thought.

Although it took nearly two hours before the police had completed their routine and got round to questioning him, the interrogation when it came was much shorter than Anderson had feared. To the police he was the tenant of the roof apartment, the bystander who had discovered the body. Yes, he knew
Langman but only vaguely as one knows one's fellow tenants. A researcher in Talmudic law, he believed. Yes, he had been out all evening and yes, he could prove it. He gave them the Freedman's address and was allowed to return to his apartment.

As he lay on his bed, Anderson wondered what his chances were of being out of Israel by the time the Tel Aviv police found out about his encounter with the Jerusalem authorities and started thinking along the lines of no smoke without fire.

It was after four when Anderson finally fell asleep. As a consequence he did not wake till after ten-thirty. The building was quiet with most of the Americans already away to lectures and classes, so he lay still and enjoyed the peace. He heard the clatter of a diesel engine on Einstein and assigned it to a bus. The sound of it labouring as it pulled away told him that it was heading up the road.

Anderson ventured out on to the roof with a mug of black coffee in his hand. For some reason the words on a tourist poster for Israel sprang to mind. It had said, 'You'll Never Forget It'. So true,
he thought with a wan smile. Thinking of the poster gave him the ridiculous thought that he had not sent any postcards. What on earth would he write on them?

He had started some preliminary packing when there was a knock on the door. First policeman of the day, he thought, and opened it to find
Mirit standing there. His mouth fell open as a knotted fist turned in his stomach.

'You didn't call,' she said.

'No, I'm flying home tomorrow,' said Anderson flatly.

'I see,' said
Mirit, looking puzzled.

'So if you'll excuse me . .
.’

'Why are you behaving this way? Aren't you even going to ask me in?'

Anderson was in emotional agony. How could someone so beautiful be so devious? How could she stand there looking so concerned? He couldn't resist the urge to hurt her. 'Your friend Langman is dead,' he said. 'He was murdered last night.'

Mirit
seemed stunned. 'Miles Langman?'

'Yes, Miles
Langman.' At least she didn't pretend that she hadn't known him, thought Anderson.

'How did you know that I knew Miles
Langman?' Mirit asked.

'I drove to
Hadera last night to ask your help in finding out about him.' Anderson shook his head at the irony. 'I didn't believe he was what he said he was. Then I saw you both together.'

'I see,' said
Mirit quietly. 'What did he tell you he did?'

'He said that he was a researcher in Talmudic law. But he asked too many questions.'

Mirit nodded. 'You were right. Asking questions was more Langman's business. He was an officer in the Tel Aviv station of the CIA.'

Anderson sat down
slowly. This was all he needed, the CIA. To a man whose contact with the forces of law and order before coming to Israel had been a ticket for parking on a double yellow line in Chipping Camden, the mention of the CIA pushed his appreciation of the absurd to the outer limits. 'The CIA,' he repeated like a speak-your-weight machine. He had been drinking beer on the roof with CIA? Come on.

'It's true,' said
Mirit, seeing the look on Anderson's face.

'And your connection?'

'I met Miles Langman for the first time in my life last night. The CIA were interested in the attack on you in Caesarea; they requested a copy of my report from the base commander last week and followed up yesterday by asking to speak to the reporting officer . . . me.'

'But why?' asked a confused Anderson.

'Ironically, Langman wanted to know much the same as you did about the attack. He didn't seem to think it was terrorists either. He wanted to know if I had any other ideas.'

‘I thought that you and he were in league.'

‘I know what you thought,' said Mirit.

'But why should the CIA be interested in me?'

‘The simple answer is they’re not. You are a means to an end. It's the Klein thing they're concerned with. As far as I could gather from Langman, he was letting you do his job for him. He said something about you being able to go places he couldn't, so he was going to let you and keep watch in the background. When I confessed that I had seen you again on a personal level, and would probably be seeing you some more, he asked if I would do the same. I said that I wouldn’t deceive you but, as you are going home tomorrow, the question no longer arises.'

Anderson felt so bad he could not say anything. Still sitting on the bed, he held his head in his hands and stared at the floor, desperately trying to get his thoughts in order.
Mirit got up to go. She said quietly, 'May I wish you a safe journey.'

This parting was more than Anderson could bear. He
got to his feet. 'God, I'm so sorry. Can you forgive me for what I thought?'

'Is it so important?'

'Yes.'

'W
hy?'

'Because I'm in love with you,' said Anderson, confessing the fact to himself as much as
Mirit. There was a long silence before Mirit said softly, 'I see.' Anderson had never felt so emotionally naked in his life. It was as if time had stopped.

Mirit
said, 'It's unwise, even ridiculous after such a short time, and there can be no future in it, but for what it's worth and however long it lasts ... I feel the same.'

Anderson kissed
Mirit and felt as if he had flown to heaven on a wet afternoon. He ran his fingers through her dark hair and held her close, never wanting the moment to end. 'God, how I love you!' he said, so forcibly that Mirit was forced to laugh. Then they both laughed. Anderson kissed her again.

'Neil?'

'Yes?'

'Your breath smells like a camel.'

Anderson apologized. 'I had rather a lot to drink last night ... I was trying to forget you.'

Mirit
ran her fingertips lightly along his forehead and said, 'Never do that, Neil.'

'Never. I promise.'

Anderson cancelled his flight. It was about the only positive move he felt sure of making. 'Now what?' he said as he put down the phone.

Mirit
said, 'I came here today to tell you that I had taken some leave. I thought that we might go away somewhere for a few days. I had hoped that we might be able to work out why you were in danger. What do you think?'

'I think that that is the best idea I ever heard,' said Anderson, unable to believe how the mood of the morning had changed.

'Where shall we go?' said Mirit.

'Anywhere.'

‘The Red Sea.'

Anderson left
Mirit in the apartment while he went up to the university to tell Professor Strauss that he would not be leaving Israel just yet, but that he would be gone for a few days. He paused briefly to speak to Myra Freedman on his way out.

'Change your mind?' she asked.

Anderson said that he had decided to stay on for a bit.

'Find out something?'

'About myself,' smiled Anderson as he left. 'I'm off to the Red Sea.'

As they got into the Fiat, Anderson leaned over and kissed Mirit. 'Camel?' he asked.

'No, toothpaste!'

He felt better with every mile that took them away from Tel Aviv and south into the Negev Desert, a burning landscape that freed his mind from all distraction. After an hour of comfortable silence Mirit said, 'Neil? Is there anything that you can't tell me?'

'What made you say that?'

‘I was about to suggest that we be absolutely frank with each other but then I thought that you might have given your word to say nothing about some things.'

'Perhaps I should ask you the same question.'

'You should,' agreed Mirit, 'but I only know what you and Miles Langman told me, although Langman did think you had some secret notebook.'

Anderson told her about the trap that he had set for
Langman using the lie about Klein's notebook.

She smiled. 'Where did you learn that?'

‘I saw it in a film.'

They lapsed into silence again till Anderson said, 'I didn't answer your question.'

‘I noticed,' said Mirit, without taking her eyes off the road.

'There is something I haven't told you, but as I haven't given my word about anything other than something I'm going to do, I will tell you.' He told her of the real power of the toxin produced by the Klein gene and of his agreement with Jacob Strauss to destroy it.

'Isn't that unscientific?'

'Yes.'

'Won't your career suffer when people find out?'

'Probably.'

'Neil.'

'Yes?'

'I'm glad.'

They drove into the Negev town of
Be'er Sheva and stopped for some cold orange juice. 'You know? I like the desert,' said Anderson, looking at the burning waste through narrowed eyes under the shade of his hat.

'Any particular reason?'

'No, I just like it.'

Dusk was falling when
Mirit slowed the car and pulled off the road. 'Come on,' she said, getting out and walking over to a ridge in the sand. Anderson joined her. 'There! Over there.' Mirit pointed and Anderson saw the sparkle of the setting sun on water some twenty miles away. There was a little cluster of lights on the horizon. 'Eilat,' said Mirit, 'that's where we're going.'

As they stood there on the ridge, Anderson realized that he couldn't hear a sound. The air was perfectly still. It was like standing in a painted landscape, the only people on earth; or maybe it wasn't earth, another planet perhaps.

'Do you like what you see?' asked Mirit softly.

‘I
like.’

'It gets better.' They got back in the car.

'Where are we?' asked Anderson as they pulled into the drive of a hotel that seemed to be the only building for miles.

'Coral Beach,' said
Mirit. 'You'll see why in the morning.' They showered, changed and went downstairs to dinner. They ate outside on a terrace beneath the stars and within earshot of the waves as they lapped the shore.

'Finished?' asked
Mirit at the end of the meal.

'Yes.'

'Come with me.' Mirit led the way out into the grounds where she pulled two sun loungers together and said, 'Lie down.' Anderson stretched out on one and Mirit joined him on the other. 'Now look up.'

Anderson looked up into the star-filled heavens. 'Beautiful,' he said.

'Keep looking,' said Mirit. They gazed in silence at the night sky like two medieval philosophers until a bright trail of fire suddenly raced across the velvet. 'There!' said Mirit with satisfaction.

'A shooting star!' said Anderson.

Both of them knew that they were going to make love so there was no awkwardness when it came to it. Undressed, Mirit's body was all it had promised to be and Anderson held the gaze of her deep, dark eyes as his fingertips explored her smooth, firm contours. His tongue traced a line from her ear down to her breasts, teasing her nipples into full erectness as his hand sought her thigh.

Mirit
met Anderson on his own terms with an almost animal passion that demanded as much from him as he from her. When she began to tease him by alternately barely allowing him to penetrate her and holding him immobile deep within her, Anderson's male urge to dominate became so unbearable that he trapped her wrists on the pillow and took her hard. He burst within her and the violence receded into loving tenderness as he licked the salty sweat from the nape of her neck. 'I think I've bruised you,' he said.

'An honourable wound,' said
Mirit in the darkness.

The sun came up, painting the mountains of Arabia red and waking
Mirit and Anderson who were comfortably asleep in each other's arms. Anderson let out a great yawn of contentment which made Mirit smile. 'How do you feel?' she whispered in his ear.

'Hungry,' he said.

'How ungallant!'

'And very much in love with you, my lady.' Anderson kissed her gently and sat up, looking around him. 'God! I feel good.' He got up and went over to the window where he looked out on the sparkling water of the Gulf of
Aqaba and beyond to the hills of Jordan. 'I knew it! I'm in the Garden of Eden!'

'Shall we swim first or eat breakfast?' asked
Mirit.

'Neither,' said Anderson.

Mirit smiled.

It was too late for breakfast so they swam in the water above the coral reefs using snorkelling equipment from the hotel and adding even more to the illusion that they were in a time-locked world of their own. They dived and merged with the shapes and colours of the reef. The fish didn't seem to mind; they accepted them as if they had always lived there.

They ate lunch on the beach beneath a sunshade and stayed there snoozing till the fierce midday heat passed and allowed them to venture out again to swim once more over their coral paradise. 'Mirit, we must talk,' said Anderson as they emerged from the water.

Mirit
put her finger to her lips. Tomorrow,' she said, 'tomorrow.'

There was no reason to change the pattern of the previous evening. It didn't even occur to them. They had dinner outside and then lay prone beneath the heavens in their continued quest for shooting stars. Their vigil ended after two and they retired to their room to love each other with the intensity of feeling only known to those who are in danger or fear that their happiness might be brief. Once more the first red glow of dawn was chasing the blackness from the sky as they fell into a deep sleep still locked in each other's arms.

At Mirit's suggestion they joined a party of divers going out by boat to some reefs further offshore. There were eleven in the group and their gear, most of it a great deal more professional than the snorkelling stuff taken by Mirit and Anderson, was stacked on top of a life raft, making a black and yellow jumble of cylinders and wetsuits in the well of the launch. Mirit and Anderson remained seated in the stern as the bow lifted out of the water and the launch creamed out into the gulf. Unlike their fellow passengers they had nothing to check or prepare so they watched the others as they tapped dials and adjusted webbing.

Anderson turned to look at the wake behind them, but
Mirit's attention was taken by the pile of equipment, in particular by a harpoon gun that she could have sworn was pointing to their right the last time she had looked. It appeared to have turned through forty-five degrees but there was no one near it. As she stared, it moved. Another ten degrees of arc ... towards them. Almost mesmerized, she leaned forward and saw the cord that trailed from the equipment pile across the floor of the boat to a man who was pretending to check a depth gauge. The gun was now pointing at Anderson's back! Mirit pushed him violently over to the right, sending him sprawling as a bolt from the harpoon hammered into the wooden transom that might have been his spine.

Everyone looked at Anderson, save
Mirit. She didn't take her eyes off the man who was shuffling the cord away from his feet as unobtrusively as possible. She took her ID card and a pistol from the canvas bag on her knee and stood up, pointing the gun at the man. He panicked and looked left and right in quick succession before making a headlong dash for the stern and leaping overboard. Unaware of what was happening, the skipper in the wheelhouse held course and speed.

Anderson struggled to his feet, a task made more difficult by the nylon line that was paying out from the equipment pile at a furious rate. His would-be assassin had caught his ankle in the harpoon line in his rush to get overboard and was now
taking out line like a hooked marlin. The skipper, alerted by the cries from the stern, cut back the revs and the bow settled down into the water causing the speed to die suddenly and a loop of line to form under the stern. It was only seconds before the rope fouled the propellers. The man on the end of the line cried out in pain as he was jerked viciously towards the boat for a few metres before the screws seized on their diet of rope, leaving him still some thirty metres adrift.

Anderson watched the man as he tried to free his injured ankle and saw sudden fear cross his face. He began to scream at the top of his voice. 'What's he saying?' Anderson asked
Mirit.

'He says he's bleeding,' said
Mirit. For a moment Anderson didn't see the relevance of her words or understand the panic, but as two dark triangular fins crossed behind the man in the water it became all too clear.

A crewman took a desperately long time to bring the rope, which was now taut between the propellers and the injured man, within range of the hands reaching down from the stern. The skipper was standing on the roof of the wheelhouse with a rifle to his shoulder as he followed the circling fins in their ever-tightening arc, but with fifteen metres to go the screaming stopped and the sea was suddenly empty. There was a moment when all was quiet and calm. The rope was slack and the rifle silent.

Anderson swallowed in an attempt to moisten his dry throat but didn't stop looking at the spot where the man had gone down. His vigil ended as the water erupted and the sea gave up a bloody, legless torso to stare blankly at the azure blue sky for a few seconds before another shark slammed into it and took it down for good.

There was nothing to say. The occupants of the boat sat in silence as the launch bobbed gently on the swell in the blistering heat and they waited for the attraction of blood in the water to dissipate before a crewman could go down to free the propellers. When he did go over the side, the sounds of hacking and sawing that came through the floor did nothing to lessen the awful images that filled their minds.

A cloud of blue diesel smoke lifted gently into the air as the engines choked and spluttered into life, having to fight all the way against airlocks in the fuel lines caused by the intense heat. They headed back to shore still largely in silence, Anderson constantly finding his eyes drifting back to the harpoon bolt embedded in the stern and feeling his stomach turn over each time he did so. He found himself massaging the point in his torso where the bolt would have entered, his fingertips tracing out its entry mark. He saw himself pinned to the board like a butterfly in a schoolboy's collection. They were still trying to kill him and he was scared.

When he could see beyond his own fear, Anderson realized that
Shula Ron had been murdered because of the Klein plasmid. She must have known too much about what Klein had been doing, and someone had killed her to keep her quiet. What a can of worms. Anderson became aware that Mirit was looking at him. He managed a wan smile but didn't say anything.

The skipper of the launch had radioed ahead, so the police were waiting for them when they tied up and filed out on to the wooden landing stage. Interviews
began almost immediately, not that that seemed to make the time pass any more quickly. It transpired that no one knew the dead man; everyone had assumed that he had been with everyone else. The skipper said that the man had been the last one to request a place on the boat and he had assumed that he had come from the same hotel as the rest of the party.

When it came to his turn, Anderson stonewalled the police, stating simply that he had no idea why anyone should want to kill him. He said nothing about the Klein gene and had requested
Mirit to do likewise. They were allowed to go but the spell had been broken. Coral Beach was no longer a place of magic; they had returned to the real world and, as they walked back from the quayside to the hotel, Anderson wondered if he would ever know such happiness again.

They packed their things and checked out to begin the return journey to Tel Aviv. It was late afternoon so the heat had ceased to be a real problem as they left
Eilat and headed north into the Negev. With twenty miles of barren waste behind them Mirit said, 'You know, there's a fault in your logic.'

'Good. Tell me,' said Anderson.

'You have assumed from the beginning that Cohen was the scientist involved in the secret cloning with Klein.'

'Yes.'

'But from what you have told me there was never any proof that Cohen was involved.'

'Klein worked with Cohen in Strauss's lab. They were both using the PZ9 plasmid that the gene was cloned into.'