force officers. You know what they'll tell you."
"You're a tough man, Jack." Moshe wasn't sure whether he was annoyed or fascinated by Jack's determination.
"The last time you told me that, you were happy about it. I was doing what you wanted." He paused. "You know I'm right."
Moshe wrinkled his forehead. "Of course you're right. However, I won't cross Joyner on this. Also, despite what some people in this city and in the press say, I don't go out of my way to disregard orders from the cabinet."
Jack decided to keep pushing. "Think about the pilot. If it were one of our boys down, you'd do everything humanly possible to rescue him." Jack felt himself growing emotional as he thought about what was happening to Robert McCallister.
Moshe shook his head. "But he's not one of our boys. Is he?"
"So what?" Jack fired back, raising his voice again. "An innocent man's life is at stake. We have a moral obligation toâ"
Jack had gone too far. Moshe was furious. Jack Cole had no business coming in here and lecturing him about morality. He didn't care whose brother the American pilot was. "You're way out of line." He pointed a finger at Jack for emphasis.
Jack knew the rebuke was deserved. He backpedaled. "I'm sorry, it's just thatâ"
Moshe cut him off. "I don't want to hear any more about it." His tone was sharp and crisp, with a ring of finality. "I won't use the Mossad to rescue Robert McCallister. The issue's closed."
* * *
Jack was angry at himself for handling the discussion with Moshe so poorly. Wanting to cool down, he left Moshe's office and walked along the tree-lined thoroughfare toward the main campus of Hebrew University. The buildings, all constructed of gray stone torn from the Judean hills, gave a sense of peace, tranquility, and permanence to one of the most hotly contested pieces of real estate in the entire world.
The sun was bright in a cloudless blue sky, which made the Middle East a photographer's dream. It was a spring day for young lovers losing themselves in each other, not for middle-aged men worrying about pilots being held hostage by an implacable foe.
Jack didn't think about the path he was following. His legs automatically carried him toward the university sports complex and the tennis courts, where he had spent many hours as a student, some in glorious victory, others in the anguish of defeat. The tennis team was practicing. Jack walked into the complex and sat down in a corner of the stands that ringed center court.
He was there only five minutes when a tall, thin, gray-haired man dressed in tennis whites, walking with a decided limp, the result of a bullet he took in the leg from a Palestinian sniper in the intifada, came up and stood next to Jack.
He shouted to one of the players: "Motti, get the racket higher on your serve. All the way up."
He watched, then grimaced. "Follow through. Whatever happened to the follow-through?"
Same old Dov Landau, Jack thought. He and Dov had played on the university team together. Dov, the star, made tennis his career, playing in international competitions, then coaching Israel's finest players.
"Jack Cole," Dov said as he sat down. "I haven't seen you in ages. I read about you in the papers. The gossip columns. You and that dish of an opera singer."
"Chava. She's a nice person."
Dov smiled. "Yes, I'm sure that's the only reason you date her. What brings you to Jerusalem?"
"Business."
Dov laughed. "That tells me a lot."
"I'm selling wine."
Dov cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Run, Noah. Run. That's why God gave you legs."
He turned back to Jack. "I was sorry to hear about your knee surgery. Have you resumed playing?"
"The doctor said I'll never be any good again. I gave away my rackets."
Dov frowned. "That's the trouble with people our age. We're still young enough to do whatever we want, but we listen to people who tell us we can't. You should have told the doctor to stuff it."
"Well, it's too late for that now."
Dov
"You're a tough man, Jack." Moshe wasn't sure whether he was annoyed or fascinated by Jack's determination.
"The last time you told me that, you were happy about it. I was doing what you wanted." He paused. "You know I'm right."
Moshe wrinkled his forehead. "Of course you're right. However, I won't cross Joyner on this. Also, despite what some people in this city and in the press say, I don't go out of my way to disregard orders from the cabinet."
Jack decided to keep pushing. "Think about the pilot. If it were one of our boys down, you'd do everything humanly possible to rescue him." Jack felt himself growing emotional as he thought about what was happening to Robert McCallister.
Moshe shook his head. "But he's not one of our boys. Is he?"
"So what?" Jack fired back, raising his voice again. "An innocent man's life is at stake. We have a moral obligation toâ"
Jack had gone too far. Moshe was furious. Jack Cole had no business coming in here and lecturing him about morality. He didn't care whose brother the American pilot was. "You're way out of line." He pointed a finger at Jack for emphasis.
Jack knew the rebuke was deserved. He backpedaled. "I'm sorry, it's just thatâ"
Moshe cut him off. "I don't want to hear any more about it." His tone was sharp and crisp, with a ring of finality. "I won't use the Mossad to rescue Robert McCallister. The issue's closed."
* * *
Jack was angry at himself for handling the discussion with Moshe so poorly. Wanting to cool down, he left Moshe's office and walked along the tree-lined thoroughfare toward the main campus of Hebrew University. The buildings, all constructed of gray stone torn from the Judean hills, gave a sense of peace, tranquility, and permanence to one of the most hotly contested pieces of real estate in the entire world.
The sun was bright in a cloudless blue sky, which made the Middle East a photographer's dream. It was a spring day for young lovers losing themselves in each other, not for middle-aged men worrying about pilots being held hostage by an implacable foe.
Jack didn't think about the path he was following. His legs automatically carried him toward the university sports complex and the tennis courts, where he had spent many hours as a student, some in glorious victory, others in the anguish of defeat. The tennis team was practicing. Jack walked into the complex and sat down in a corner of the stands that ringed center court.
He was there only five minutes when a tall, thin, gray-haired man dressed in tennis whites, walking with a decided limp, the result of a bullet he took in the leg from a Palestinian sniper in the intifada, came up and stood next to Jack.
He shouted to one of the players: "Motti, get the racket higher on your serve. All the way up."
He watched, then grimaced. "Follow through. Whatever happened to the follow-through?"
Same old Dov Landau, Jack thought. He and Dov had played on the university team together. Dov, the star, made tennis his career, playing in international competitions, then coaching Israel's finest players.
"Jack Cole," Dov said as he sat down. "I haven't seen you in ages. I read about you in the papers. The gossip columns. You and that dish of an opera singer."
"Chava. She's a nice person."
Dov smiled. "Yes, I'm sure that's the only reason you date her. What brings you to Jerusalem?"
"Business."
Dov laughed. "That tells me a lot."
"I'm selling wine."
Dov cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Run, Noah. Run. That's why God gave you legs."
He turned back to Jack. "I was sorry to hear about your knee surgery. Have you resumed playing?"
"The doctor said I'll never be any good again. I gave away my rackets."
Dov frowned. "That's the trouble with people our age. We're still young enough to do whatever we want, but we listen to people who tell us we can't. You should have told the doctor to stuff it."
"Well, it's too late for that now."
Dov
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