Colonel Balak

Crossing a carriageway, Sean steered the hire car north. The location of Mossad's headquarters was deemed a secret, but Sean knew that "was bullshit". Across large intersections, he looked for signs for a country club -- in particular a 12-storey office block adjacent to the club.

He flashed his warrant card to a security guard, drove under a yellow barrier and pulled into a parking space.

Works of sculpture by some renowned artists adorned the landscape around the entrance. The 12-storey complex housed local Tel Aviv police, their logo displayed in white letters attached to the grey marble foyer wall. No sign for Mossad.

Mossad's motto had changed from Proverbs 24:6 "For by wise guidance you can wage your war" to Proverbs 11:14 "Where there is no guidance, a nation falls, but in an abundance of counsellors there is safety".

Sean approached the reception desk, his warrant card extended towards the desk sergeant. She followed entries in a desk diary with her finger. "Friggin' diaries," Sean said to no one in particular. The woman pressed a button on her phone keypad and spoke privately into it, cradling it to her ear. After a few minutes, the lift doors swished open and two soldiers in camouflage gear stepped out: muscular men with jet-black hair and olive skin. Their boots resounded across the tiled foyer. The soldiers conducted a quick body search on Sean.

The desk sergeant wagged her finger and tutted while Sean's gun and knife were removed. A hand scanner bleeped and Sean's survival kit was placed in a plastic bag with his other weapons.

"I want that back," Sean pointed to his kit. "I got it from Mothercare."

The tough soldiers made no comment and escorted Sean to the elevator. On the console, one soldier pressed the button with an UP arrow and Sean stretched. A ding announced the 11th floor.

Sean said to himself quietly, "Here we go." The guards remained in stand-easy position until a matronly woman appeared dressed in a charcoal-grey skirt and jacket along with a white frilled blouse and black shoes. She showed him into a small lounge area; the soldiers stood outside.

"Coffee, Mr Casey?" she asked in slightly accented English.

"Yes please. Black, no sugar would be great." A clock on the wall ticked the seconds away: 11:50.

The woman brought a silver metal tray with steaming coffee. "The colonel will see you in a few minutes, Mr Casey."

Sean sipped his coffee and paced to and fro, studying landscape photos of Israel. The woman walked back into the lounge like a soldier on parade.

"The colonel will see you now. Please follow me." The two soldiers left.

The couple marched in tandem through a room with dozens of people sitting at computer screens. Sean nodded at a few but received no acknowledgments. At the colonel's door, a burly male figure in navy blue uniform frisked him once more.

"Oi, be careful, that's my willy," Sean said, the humour lost on the soldier.

The guard escorted Sean into an office, smartly saluted, and closed the door. Sean sat on a padded office chair facing the back of a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and tough leathery sun-tanned skin. The five-foot six-inch man's hardened back tensed and he continued to gaze through a window. Though not tall, he was solidly built.

He turned, his dark eyes focused, and assumed a seat behind a mahogany desk. He was a soldier who had seen some action, the sort of man you didn't want as an enemy. The highly polished desk contained stacks of books and magazines, a phone with an intercom, an open laptop, and a pile of brown manila folders. The colonel drew the top folder and opened it, slowly leafing methodically through the papers.

Then he looked up at Sean and asked in perfect but accented English, "You are Sean Casey?" Sean noticed a scar on the man's right cheek. His hairless head glistened in the sun.

"I think you have my photo in the papers that you're scanning."

"Yes, of course," he said, "and I can see the famous SAS tattoo in your details. I see you have one on your hand too? Please bear with me. This is a very interesting conundrum. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Balak, which means 'lightning' in your language."
Sean nodded and extended his hand. The two shook hands, still measuring each other.

The man continued, "I am a colonel in Israel's Defence Force who has the pleasure of knowing your Major Edwards at Hereford. He gave me some details concerning your problem and I offered to help, especially as it involves rescuing an Israeli citizen and recovering national artefacts. Please feel free to talk. Sergeant Joshua Federman will be joining us. Would you like more coffee?"

Sean relaxed, taking in his surroundings. He knew it would be a monumental error to underestimate Colonel Balak. Concern about his intimation that the box, parchments and healing leaves were Jewish heirlooms occupied Sean's mind.

More coffee arrived with the sergeant, a 30-something, muscular, hard-looking, six-foot-tall soldier with short-cropped black hair. Dressed in camouflage combat gear and polished black boots, he gripped Sean's hand strongly. Studying each other, they took their seats.

Colonel Balak gestured to Sean with his hand, "Please recount your story, Mr Casey. Your major's details were sketchy."

Sean took a deep breath and narrated the story, from John's meeting with Joseph to the current situation. He omitted telling about Wesley's healing: a mistake.

The colonel interrupted: "The boy recovered and celebrated his 7th birthday. It appears that the leaves have healing power." He fixed his eyes on Sean like X-rays.

"Yes, I'm getting round to that," Sean lied. "Wesley is well now. But there are no more ground leaves in the bag." He lied again. "Why Jesus only inserted a few leaves we don't know, maybe one day we'll find out, when we meet St Peter." Sean's attempt to deceive his audience with humour fell flat.

The colonel stood and turned his back, staring out of the window. Balak was a tough man, not easily fooled.

In a gruff commanding voice, he said, "We'll see about that when you bring the box to us. I am instructed from the highest authority that the manuscripts found in Jaffa are part of our national heritage. In the meantime, my sergeant will assist you with the search and rescue of our citizen. The family must also be protected. A family support officer from the local police is being sent. Thank you for coming, Mr Casey. We will meet again soon."

No salute. The meeting was over and the colonel did not turn around from the window as Sean left.

Sergeant Federman spoke. "Let's go up to the 12th floor. We can have lunch and a chat in the staff cafeteria."

"Phew," Sean said, "I thought you were gonna throw me off."

"No, the sun patio and swimming pool are on the roof. That's where we throw people off." Joshua laughed.

Sean laughed, "The only swimming pool at Hereford is for training...and it's bloody cold!"

They took the concrete stairs two at a time and entered a well-lit restaurant where two or three hundred plastic-backed chairs were set around tables in groups of two, four or eight. Panoramic windows stretched from ceiling to floor, surrounding the room. The central island housed a modern buffet and food area. Dining staff in starched white aprons served diners from the rectangular metal hot and cold containers.

Tops of office blocks, the minarets of mosques, church crosses, and modern financial buildings complete with helipads filled the horizon. Shoppers and workers in the street below resembled ants scurrying about. The place was only half-full. Joshua led Sean to the buffet area.

The sergeant said, "The menu today is schnitzel, salads, hummus, tahini, rice, mashed potatoes, and assorted vegetables."

"Can't be worse than the greasy goat meals I endured with the Mujahideen." Sean helped himself to a plate and ate with gusto.

Joshua was called away and Sean used the opportunity to make a call. Parts of the plan were coming together.