Coleman stopped just outside the open door of the helicopter and slapped each of his men on the back as they bounded in. When they were all onboard he climbed in and stuck his head into the cockpit.

The pilot turned to look at him, his night vision goggles perched atop his black flight helmet in the up position. Coleman handed the man a piece of white paper with a GPS coordinate on it.

"Bring us in low, just above the canopy and we'll fast-rope down."

The pilot nodded. Neither warrior attempted an introduction. All parties involved understood there would be no official record of what they were doing. The pilot punched the coordinates into the bird's advanced Pave Hawk avionics computer and Coleman buckled himself in for what he was sure would be a wild ride.

When David entered Monsignor Lavin's office, the first thing he noticed was caution in the eyes of the normally jovial priest. It was not the sign the Palestinian was looking for. With everything he had worked for hinging on this evening's meeting, he was growing increasingly nervous as the appointed hour approached. One mistake now, one misread, would very likely lead to a brutal death at the hands of his own people.

Studying the priest with a discerning eye, David asked, "What is wrong?"

Lavin shook his head and said, "Nothing." He pointed at the door behind him and then looked at some papers on his desk.

Something was amiss, but what it was, David hadn't a clue. He hesitated briefly and then willed his feet to march him to the door. He had a feeling that on the other side of it something awaited him that he wouldn't like. When he opened the door his instincts proved correct.

There, sitting in the dim light, in his usual spot, at the far end of the conference table, was Abe Spielman. This time, however, a shadowy figure sat next to him. David could not make out any features, but he didn't need to. The large bald head and bull-like shoulders could only belong to one man. It was Ben Freidman. The name alone inspired hatred and fear in many. In David's case, at least, it also inspired a begrudging respect.

In the entire West Bank there was perhaps no other man more loathed than Ben Freidman. As the director general of Mossad, it was Freidman's job to wage a covert war with Israel 's enemies. The Israeli Defense Forces were in charge of dealing with the menagerie of terrorist groups within the occupied territories in a more overt manner, but it was Mossad's job to take on the particularly nasty operations.

EIGHTEEN.

Freidman had been the chief architect of many such actions over the last two decades. As David's eyes adjusted to the dim lights, he got a better look at the man. Though they had never met, the two enemies stared at each other with the familiarity of lifelong rivals. Neither spoke and the tension continued to build.

Spielman, nervous that his friend might turn around and leave, offered an apology for bringing a guest.

"Jabril, I'm sorry for surprising you like this, but I can explain."

David's eyes left Freidman's and looked at his old friend. He decided, for now, not to reply. Even though he was caught off guard that their little two-person club had a new member, he knew he shouldn't have been. The information that he had given Spielman during their last meeting was bound to wake up some people at the Institute, as Mossad was commonly referred to by insiders.

Slowly, David walked closer to the two men and grabbed a chair, not the one right next to Spielman, as he normally did, but one a few away. The message was clear; he would listen, but it would not be business as usual. The other thing he hoped to convey was his mistrust of a monster like Freidman. Always the pragmatist, though, David knew the director general of Mossad was a nemesis that the bloodthirsty Palestinian leadership had created. It was a case of action and reaction.

Absent his normal charm, David looked to Spielman and said, "I didn't know we were allowed to bring visitors. I'm sure I could have found someone to join us."

Spielman didn't laugh.

"Believe me, it wasn't my idea." Inside, the elderly professor was still seething over Freidman's dictum that he would accompany him to the meeting.

It made no difference that when Freidman was a case officer, he recoiled at any attempt by his superiors to meet one of his assets. In Spielman's harsh opinion, Freidman was a control freak and a bully, and a man who fanned the flames of Palestinian-Israeli hatred. He was exactly the type of person that could upset the hard-fought and delicate friendship he had cultivated with Jabril.

Knowing Spielman well enough, David could tell that he was sincere. He gave him a slight nod, signaling that he was willing to take him at his word, at least for now.

Leaning forward, out of the shadows, Freidman placed his brawny forearms on the table and in a raspy voice asked, "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course." David maintained an almost disinterested attitude.

He'd read the PLO's meager file on the man and had heard many stories.

Born in Jerusalem in 1949, Freidman went on to distinguish himself in the Six Day War of 1967. After the war he was transferred to AMAN, Israel 's military intelligence organization, and then later Mossad. At Mossad he became a very effective kid on or in the common parlance of the business, an assassin. He specialized in hunting down members of Yasser Arafat's Force 17. His tenacious ability to track people across multiple continents made him a greatly feared warrior in the struggle for his people's security.

"I have kept an eye on you," stated Freidman, "for many years, and have been looking forward to this day for some time."

David wondered if he meant simply meeting him, or meant wrapping his large hands around his throat and choking him to death. It was quite possibly a bit of both, for he had no doubt that Ben Freidman was cut from the same cloth as the militant terrorists who governed his own people. The enemy was the enemy, and there was no need to analyze it much further than that. There was no distinction or recognition of the individual. The condemnation was made of the entire Palestinian society, and conversely of all Israelis. It was this line of thinking that allowed these men to launch blunt attacks with no concern over who was killed. It was the rationale that allowed them to sleep at night and claim that their cause was the truly just one.

There were many directions David could take this. There were many questions in fact that he would very much like to ask the dark angel who was sitting across from him, but there were schedules to be kept, goals to be met and a country to be made. Besides, it was somewhat comforting to know that, during the course of the next two weeks, the man sitting across from him would feel pressure like he'd never felt before.

Eschewing anything controversial, and swallowing his pride, David said, "And I have looked forward to meeting you."

Freidman smirked as if to say he doubted the sincerity of the comment, and then said, "Tell me Jabril, and excuse me if I sound distrustful, but it is my nature. This meeting tonight, why would all of these people risk gathering in one place?"

David wondered how good Freidman's intelligence was. It was highly likely that he had assets who could give him pieces to the complex puzzle. Those pieces on their own would prove nothing, but they might raise or lower his level of cynicism. Truthfully, he answered, "It is not that unusual for them to gather under one roof."

The bald man looked skeptical.

"The leaders of Hamas, the head of the Palestinian General Intelligence and the leaders of Force 17… this is a common occurrence that they all get together to plot the destruction of my people?"