The Confession

Five minutes of heated debate resonated around the neon-lit corridor near the cells, and the female officer left the interview room and joined the discussion.

After some further argument, Joshua relented. Sean Casey, formerly a captain with the SAS, and Sergeant Federman, a Special Forces intelligence officer with Mossad, sat down opposite the young thug who had stolen a diary. His sister sat next to him looking increasingly worried.

The youngster's eyes narrowed. Joshua explained again that he would interpret. The teenager's hand trembled. He probably remembered Sean from Heathrow Airport; he certainly remembered being head butted, punched and karate kicked. He whispered to his sister and toyed nervously with a white drinking cup.

Sean placed a brown manila folder on the table. The teenager reached for it.

"Not yet!" Sean said.

There followed a long series of interchanges between Sean and the prisoner. The browbeaten youth looked questioningly at Josh, who nodded in assent. The young woman cried. Sean pressed on with his onslaught. Sentence by sentence he made his points, and

Joshua hurried to translate. Eitan paled and grew petrified.

Sean deftly opened the manila folder, taking out a photo. Sliding it across the table, he asked, "Well?"

He slid another, then another, and finally one more. He arrayed the photos in a line, like a row of playing cards. The young woman vomited loudly and turned her face away. I recognised the crime scene photos from the detectives' area: horrific, gruesome and vicious murders in recent months. The teenager gagged and asked for another drink of water.

"Wait!" Sean said with authority, before the police officer in the room could oblige.

He swung out of his chair and stood behind the scared-witless detainee and his sister. Drawing the writing pad and pen across the table, he placed it squarely in front of the youth, who trembled with Sean's hand on his shoulder. He turned, looking meekly at Sean and then at Josh, both of whom nodded. Then Eitan started to talk and write scribbled notes that filled three pages of A4 lined paper. Josh asked him to sign it. The Mossad officer witnessed the statement and then asked the female sergeant to enter and do the same.

Sean left the room wiping his brow, "I need a drink."

For our benefit, Sean then outlined his methodology. "I painted every picture I could from Madame Tussauds Wax Museum Room of Horror. Using the crime scene photos, I emphasised that the kid would experience it all. I told him that I would make him an offer he couldn't refuse. Either his brains, or information and his signature on the paper."

The female police officer registered shock, but I was not surprised.

Joshua slapped Sean on the back but said, "The confession will not stand up in court. Eitan confessed under duress, but we have vital information. Thank you, Captain."

Josh rang his team at Mossad, ordering them to do a search for a blue van and recently rented properties within ten kilometres of the Maccabiah Stadium going north and east up the coast.

"What Eitan told us," Josh explained, "is that when the men took Simeon, he wanted no part of it. They blindfolded both Eitan and Simeon and threw them into the back of a blue van. He knew that they had driven past the Maccabiah Stadium because he heard cheering. There was a match on New Year's Day. The kid said they travelled for five to ten minutes, he could hear seagulls, and then they turned right. One man unloaded Simeon and the other returned to Jaffa and dropped the kid at the train station."

The pieces of the jigsaw were coming together for the rescue of Simeon.

*

Darkness was approaching at 7:00 p.m. when we arrived back at the Hilton Hotel on a starlit night. Josh left us to brief his colonel and the team at his base. I rang Joseph to tell him and Esther the news.

I knocked on the door to our room and the chain rattled.

James called out, "Who is it? I only open for Sean." I noticed his eye was absent from the peephole.

"Open up, you plonker," I said. "I need a pee."

Sean and I shared what we knew with James.

I said, "Josh's team is deciphering information and following up leads. About the blue van, they're trying car dealers and hire companies, stolen vehicles and local businesses. For recently let properties in the designated area, they're making enquiries of the estate agents and letting companies."

At 8:30 p.m., after showering and changing, we descended the stairs to the restaurant. It had been a strange journey since I had first walked down those steps. The box locked in our room upstairs held answers that many sought. I felt strongly that we were drawing closer to the evil people who had tried to steal the healing leaves; drawing nearer to the men who were holding Simeon.

That evening, using Skype, I spoke with Liz. "Liz, I love you now more than ever."

"Aww thanks, hun, I love you too," Liz said and blew a kiss. "You're not worried about this, are you?" she asked.

"Not really," I lied. "But I want us to take a holiday for my 62nd birthday, maybe around the Easter holidays so Becky and Wesley could join us. How about the Royal at Woolacombe?"

"That would be lovely, John. You sure you're not worried?" she said.

"Nah, he's not worried. He's got me!" Sean interjected over my shoulder. "And where's Rachel?"

"In Berne still," Becky said. "Where's Josh? In his room?"

"With his colonel," I said, "but he'll be back at midnight."

"Pooh!" Becky said. Then, "OK then, goodnight. Night, John boy."

The two females closest to my heart giggled. I chuckled, hoping we were nearing the end of a rollercoaster ride.

I tossed and turned, my sleep disturbed, similar to my first journey to Tel Aviv. On that occasion, I'd been anxious about a meeting with Simeon. Nearly 11 months later, I was worried about his safety. His phone had been discarded. Ruthless men were holding him hostage. St Peter's box, the scrolls and mysterious leaves were deemed to be worth a life.
Being reminded of the scrolls and the interest of so many, including the Mossad Colonel Balak, I made my mind up. James was snoring in his bed. I carefully lifted the box, took out all the documents and maps and placed them in my holdall. Sneaking carefully out in the early morning, I tiptoed to reception.

"Do you have a photocopier?" I asked the night porter, who helpfully pointed to a room adjacent to two telephone kiosks, explaining how to use it with my room card.

I closed the door with a click and lifted the parchments and maps from my holdall. A state-of-the-art Ricoh copier and printer filled one wall. Into a slot I inserted my room card and then placed the sacred parchments one by one on the glass platen, pressing the green button and hoping the photocopying would do no damage to the originals. Fifteen minutes later, I placed the originals and copies in my holdall, and returned to our room.

James was singing in the shower. Our breakfast meeting ten minutes away, I replaced the parchments and maps in the box and packed the copies into my suitcase.

Smartly attired hotel staff, used to our comings and goings, served our party in the restaurant with coffee and took orders for food. Joining us, Josh insisted we try cereal, oatmeal, eggs, hash browns, steak, toast, and pancakes. Arriving just in time, Joseph echoed the Mossad officer's selection. Tucking in to a hearty meal, we caught up with the latest intelligence.

"What was wrong with you last night?" James asked. "It sounded like a jumping frog in the next bed."

"Err...I had things on my mind, and things to do."

"You should count sheep, Boss. It works for me. Me mammy said I could sleep on a clothesline."

"Too much imagination, I suppose. Once a sheep wearing pyjamas or something jumps the fence, I'm wide awake."

"Mine get taken up by flying saucers," James laughed.

"You're two ginger-headed weirdos," Sean said, making sheep noises.

"Anyway, Dad, we're trying Google Earth to locate the van. We could get lucky," James said, "if the camera is pointed in the right direction and the weather is clear. We're limiting the search area to a 50-kilometre-square section grid by grid. Using a complicated programme, one of our online friends, Tealeaf, is limiting the pixels to highlight vehicle-size blue objects."

"Huh? And did you say Tealeaf?" I was gobsmacked that James' chat friends were working around the clock to locate a blue van for us. 'These cyber buffs are not so bad after all,' I thought.

"But I gotta tell you, Dad," he added seriously, "that when I searched Google Earth for Woolacombe, there were kids playing on the sand and holiday-makers splashing in the sea."

"So?" I said. "It's a great beach."

"Yeah, but not in January," he added morosely. "The images we see may be months old."

"OK, thanks, James," I said. "The paper still concerns me though. The Cheshire Gazette will shout from the housetops about Wesley's amazing recovery, mentioning a mysterious Middle-Eastern visitor to our home. Delivering a denial may placate the news-hungry wolves, but once the trumpet has sounded our adversaries will be strengthened in their resolve to obtain the box. If the tale spreads, it will jeopardise our search and endanger Simeon's life."

"I may be able to help," Joseph said. "I've been thinking about it. One of my friends from the Manchester synagogue is a substantial shareholder in the Manchester Evening News. He's on the board. I believe they own the accumulated Gazette brands. Perhaps board pressure will stifle more broadcasts unfavourable to our cause?"

Slapping Joseph on his back, I hugged him, overjoyed at the news.

Encouraged by these developments, we leisurely ploughed into the gastronomic delights. There was little else we could do but eat and wait. Leads, interviews, data, reports, details from snitches and informers, all were appearing fruitless while the sands of time slowly seeped through the hourglass of our Thursday morning.

"The local police are canvassing areas in patrol cars and door-knocking owners of blue vans, as well as checking recent lets. With all searches there are peaks and troughs," Joshua said, "we've made great progress so far. Colonel Balak feels that if we had the CCTV coverage that you have in the UK in your towns, cities and road and rail transport systems, we would have found the criminals by now. Sadly, our people prefer their privacy to safety. I think the colonel is secretly envious of the UK. 'Big Brother' is everywhere in your country!"

"Well, you must use what you have. Let's hope it's enough," I said.