David stayed the course.

"Yes."

"I find it hard to believe they could stand the sight of each other."

"Let's just say they are united in their hatred of you… and their desire for money."

Things began to make sense for the head of Mossad. At first he thought Jabril was invited to the terrorism summit as a mere financial representative, but now he saw there might be more to it. It was possible that with his fund-raising prowess, he was able to call such meetings himself, in order to distribute cash. A recent piece of intelligence clicked in the back of his mind and he reminded himself to look more deeply into something one of his people had told him just this morning.

Freidman eyed David and asked, "And what of you? What do you hate, or should I say who?"

"I try not to hate. It leads to poor decisions."

Freidman scoffed at the thought.

"It can also be a great motivator."

"Yes, it can," replied David, "but look where it has gotten us."

David watched as Freidman retreated back into the shadows, an expression of scornful disagreement on his face. Watching him react the way he did, David wished it was within his means to kill the man right this very moment. He could probably do it and forfeit his own life, or spend the rest of his days in an Israeli jail, being tortured and otherwise treated like a subhuman, but suicide was not in his plans. Maybe an opportunity would someday present itself, but for now he would have to make his deal with the devil. It saddened him, however, to know that Freidman would go on using his in discriminant weapons of war to kill the people of Palestine. Ben Freidman held much in common with the men David was meeting with this evening. It was too bad he couldn't talk him into coming along.

A black attachИ case appeared from under the table and then another.

Freidman placed them both in front of David and said, "As you requested." He laid one of the cases flat, opened it and spun it around.

"Each is lined with five pounds of C-4 plastique. You requested it, so I assume you know what you're doing."

There had been a debate between the top counterterrorism people and Spielman late into the evening yesterday. The question was, how would Spielman's asset pull this off? Was he going to use the cases as a suicide bomb, or was he going to somehow leave the meeting place and remote detonate the devices? The debate was evenly divided with Spielman saying it was impossible that Jabril Khatabi would commit suicide, and the analysts saying that their money was on the Palestinian turning himself into a martyr. This split among his own people led Freidman to take several precautions.

David nodded and examined the cases. They were basic black Samsonite attachИ cases. He would weigh them when he got back to his apartment, and had little doubt that he would discover the Israelis had put more than five pounds of explosives in each. David extended his hand.

"The detonator?"

"As you requested." Freidman handed over a black digital Casio watch.

"Press the split reset button to arm the cases and then the start-stop button twice within three seconds to detonate."

"Thank you." David took the watch and studied it briefly before placing it inside the first case.

"Just so you know, Mr. Freidman, I plan on making more than one stop."

Freidman frowned, not quite understanding what was meant by the remark.

David grinned.

"I am not so naive as to think this watch is the only detonator. I also know that my life means nothing to you. So don't get any ideas about detonating the cases on your own. I will be led on a long journey tonight, changing cars often, and stopping at many houses until I reach my destination. Only I will know when the time is right, and although I know it is impossible for you to trust a Palestinian, believe me when I tell you that I want these men dead every bit as much as you do."

Freidman accepted the statement with a nod and said, "It's your operation. However you want to handle it is up to you."

"Is there anything else I need to know?"

Freidman hesitated. He had many questions, but now was not the time. If this Palestinian proved himself tonight and managed to survive the blast they could sit down later. He shook his oversized head and said, "No."

As David gathered the cases he heard the tired voice of his friend who was still sitting, observing the two strange allies.

"Why, Jabril?"

David turned to look at Spielman. There seemed a genuine sadness in his eyes.

"You do not know?"

"Maybe, but I would like to hear it from you."

David nodded thoughtfully. His mind rested upon the truth and he said, "These men who I am going to see do not want peace, and as long as they are the leaders of my people, we will only know hatred and death." With that, David grabbed the cases and left the room.

NINETEEN.

The U.S. Air Force Special Operations helicopter streaked across the calm moonlit waters of Leyte Gulf. Up ahead loomed Dinagat Island and the site where two of their fellow warriors had been gunned down just days earlier. Only one of the men in the helicopter was on active duty but that didn't matter. Once a SEAL always a SEAL.

Coleman and his team were coming to settle the score, but somewhere else in the interior of the island, under the thick jungle cover, was an American family that was undoubtedly scared witless. The former commander of SEAL Team 6 wished he could do something to help them, but right now that was out of his hands.

Coleman and his men had moved to the side doors of the bird, two men to each side, their feet dangling over the edge, each man clipped to a safety harness in the event the helicopter had to make a drastic, evasive maneuver. They were all wearing night vision goggles, giving their eyes ample time to adjust.

In addition, Coleman was plugged into an in-flight headset so he could communicate with the pilots. As he peered out the port door he listened to the chatter. The pilots were reporting four contacts on the FLIR moving toward the island from the east. They were right on time.

To help mask their insertion Coleman had asked that choppers from the Belleau Wood make an overflight of the island while they were being inserted. The big CH-53 Sea Stallions would fly just south of the target area while the Pave Hawk came in from the north under a ridge line. Coleman wasn't at all worried about being picked up on radar.

They would be flying too low for that. The problem was that when the sun came up they needed to be in position a little less than a mile from the general's camp.

In order to do that, the Pave Hawk would have to drop them off closer to the target than he would have liked. The sentries at the field command post would probably never hear the Pave Hawk's rotors in the heavy, humid tropical air, and if they did, they might think nothing of it, but if the general decided to send out scouts it could be a problem. Coleman wasn't in the business of taking unnecessary risks when a solution as simple as arranging a fly over was available.

The calm water vanished from beneath them and was replaced by a light sandy beach and then the thick jungle canopy. Coleman looked straight down, peering over the toes of his jungle boots. They were so low he felt as if he could reach down and grab a leaf. The helicopter began to climb as they worked their way up a ravine using their terrain-avoidance, terrain-following radar to hug the treetops. The pilot calmly called out one minute to insertion as the chopper weaved to the left and then back to the right as if it were meandering its way upstream.

Coleman tugged on his leather gloves to make sure they were tight and placed a hand on the heavy coil of rope that lay between himself and Kevin Hackett. The pilot called out thirty seconds to insertion, his voice just a touch tighter this time, and then asked his door gunners to report in. The men, one on each side of the bird, looked out past their ominous 7.62mm miniguns and scanned the area, reporting all clear after just a moment. One by one Coleman and his men undid their safety tethers and grabbed on to hand straps on the sides of each door.