Killing Time

CHAPTER 30

Unaware of whether Dov Eshkol had yet made his way out of California or even the United States, we again sought refuge in the deep Pacific as Tarbell — assisted now by the Kupermans — continued to hack into the databases and monitor the communications of various American and Israeli intelligence agencies in order to assemble a complete picture of the fugitive. The rest of us, meanwhile, gathered once more around the conference table to fuel ourselves with an impromptu meal prepared by Julien and to discuss the few bits of information we'd been able to squeeze out of An Machen. This conversation produced few new insights, and those few were deeply discouraging: Machen's claim that if Eshkol went into deep cover even the Mossad wouldn't be able to find him seemed entirely plausible, given his ability to elude detection thus far; and we all agreed that if the Israelis failed in their efforts to find him, the chances of the United States (the only other nation aware that there was some sort of problem) turning anything up were virtually nil. Nor did the confirmation of Malcolm's instinctive feeling about Eshkol's being descended from Holocaust survivors give us any sense of encouragement: clearly the man was considered highly violent and something of a loose cannon by his superiors, and if his murderous tendencies— which had apparently been turned, on occasion, against his own countrymen — stemmed from rage over the fate of his relatives and his race, he would have little trouble thinking in large numbers when it came time to conceive a punishment for any and all previously un-exposed accessories to the genocide in Nazi Germany.

But we would need more hard information before we could determine just what form that punishment might take; and after several hours Leon, Eli, and Jonah were able to provide it. They filed bleary-eyed into the nose of the ship, hungry and bearing a raft of notes, as well as several pictures of Eshkol, each of which bore little resemblance to the next. These they began to explain as Julien brought them food; and while the information they'd gleaned offered no reason to doubt that Eshkol was an extremely dangerous man, it also showed why our team might be better equipped to hunt him down than either the Israelis or the Americans.

"He is a murderer, yes — a butcher, really," Tarbell said, cramming food into his mouth, "but he also plays on our field, you might say."

To the rest of our puzzled looks, Jonah, who was eating slightly less ravenously, said, "He's got the usual undercover and covert skills — disguise, languages — but the real secret of his success is that he's an information junkie. He's a brilliant researcher, and he can manufacture any sort of personal documents and records to gain access to just about anything — and then destroy any evidence that he was ever there. He's even fooled the universal DNA database."

"I thought that was impossible," Larissa said.

"Not impossible," Eli answered. "Just very, very difficult. The trick is getting the corroborative samples. If you're going to, say, travel by air using the identity of someone who's actually dead, you're going to need some sample DNA to offer when you check in, and it had better come from someone who bore more than a passing resemblance to you — and, most important, someone whose death was not recorded in the database. Eshkol's apparently got quite a collection of alter egos — and I think you can guess how he got them."

"The other Mossad agents he executed," Colonel Slayton said with a nod.

"Also many of the Arab operatives he's killed," Tarbell confirmed, checking his notes and indicating the pictures, some of which showed Eshkol in traditional Arab dress. "The narcissism of minor differences, eh? Your colleague Dr. Freud would be deeply satisfied, Gideon. At any rate, whichever side they serve, such victims are not given obituaries — and their deaths are, of course, kept from the DNA database. They are ideal, really, as sample donors — nearly un-traceable."

"Eshkol was reprimanded several times," Jonah said as Tarbell went back to eating. "The first was in 2011, when he was twenty-six. Mutilating the body of one of his victims, was what the Mossad called it."

"It's not exactly unknown in that game," Larissa said. "That kind of trophy taking."

"True," Eli agreed, flipping through still more scribbled pages, "and so they let it go at a warning. Quite a few times. And that's where we may have him. Neither the Israelis nor the Americans know about Eshkol's modus operandi — we only happened to stumble on it when we cross-referenced the names of his victims, which we got out of the most secure Mossad files, with every travel database we could crack into. A few hits came up, then a few more."

"He's gone on several extracurricular outings over the years," Jonah threw in. "And I don't think it was tourism — not the way he was covering his tracks."

"You're saying he's engaged in private vendettas," Malcolm judged, quietly and grimly.

Eli nodded. "Neo-Nazis, skinheads, Arab intellectuals at foreign universities who are ardently opposed to peace with Israel — they've all mysteriously died when Eshkol has been in their respective countries, under cover of his identity-switching scheme. In a few cases we can even put him in the specific town or city where the execution took place."

Malcolm nodded slowly, gazing silently out at the ocean in the way he generally did when things took an ominous turn.

"And you think you can track him?" Slayton asked, recognizing Malcolm's mood and assuming the mantle of leadership for a moment. "Using this method?"

"We've already begun," Jonah answered with an enthusiastic nod.

"And?" Larissa asked.

"And," Eli replied, "it seems that he has in fact left the United States — for Paris. Two days ago."

General murmuring ensued as we all puzzled with the question of why Eshkol should have chosen to flee to such an apparently visible hiding place as the French capital. It was Malcolm who, without turning to us, finally and quietly declared:

"A weapon. He'll want a weapon."

Fouché looked further confused. "But he's moving quickly, Malcolm. He can hardly afford to bring along a tank or even a particularly large gun, which are the usual French exports. Explosives would be easy enough to get anywhere, so why—" His mouth freezing in midsentence, Julien's eyes widened with horrific realization.

Malcolm didn't even need to see the look. "Yes, Julien," he said. "Your countrymen rationalize trading in such technology by saying that it has always been and will always be impossible to get weapons-grade plutonium in France — but the Iraqis were able to get the plutonium elsewhere and the mechanism in Paris. Or, should I say, in a town just southeast of the city."

Instantly we all realized what Malcolm was driving at. In 2006, Iraqi president and longtime Western nemesis Saddam Hussein decided to challenge the economic embargo that had been in place against his country for nearly two decades by declaring that he had attained nuclear capability. This struck many in the West as absurd, since their renewed monitoring of Iraqi weapons facilities had not revealed any sudden advances that would have permitted Saddam to construct such devices. So, to drive his point home, Saddam dispatched a suicide bomber to explode a tactical nuclear device in one of the most prosperous Kurd communities in the Allied-protected north of his country. The man was intercepted, the device was captured, and its miniaturized mechanism was eventually determined to have been purchased in France.

"I suggest that we all man our stations," Malcolm continued. "Set course for France — the quickest course, Colonel, that you can possibly determine. We've no time to worry about interference from any of our usual antagonists."

As the rest of us rose to comply, Eli asked, "What about the Israelis and the Americans? Do we let them know what's happening?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Certainly, though I don't think they'll believe it. Especially as it comes from an anonymous and unconfirmable source. But by all means, tell them." Looking out at the sea again, he added, "Tell them that this marvelous age has produced a monster — a monster who can use their own tools better than they can possibly imagine."

I watched Malcolm for a moment as he glanced down, took out his transdermal injector, and held it to his hand; and I found myself wondering if his last remark had been about Dov Eshkol at all.