Rendezvous in Brussels

Chapter 1
Kim David was more than pleased with the recruitment of Milledufleur Rose. He and the Mossad had had her in their sights for years. Kim thoroughly reviewed the extensive file the Mossad had compiled on her. It didn’t come close to describing the sheer force of her beauty and magnetism. Kim joined the Mossad shortly after it was founded. His aristocratic bearing and refined good looks were the assets that made him a natural in what became his specialty with the Mossad—recruitment of agents, especially female agents. The Mossad had learned early on about the enhanced value of their female agents. David was the best recruiter the agency had—he was, in fact, a living legend.
He used all of his many assets to recruit women as spies. He had made it a cardinal rule to not allow emotion to enter into the relationships he necessarily had to form with his recruits. This didn’t interfere with his use of sex in order to achieve the agency’s objectives. This didn’t prevent him from the natural enjoyment from such relationships, but, for him, it was just part of the job. Since he had finished his last job several days ahead of schedule, he would use the time to make a side trip to Amsterdam before he travelled to Morocco, as he told his chief and the head of the Mossad, Hofi. Morocco was becoming less than a desirable visit. He could never abandon the mission in Morocco, but it was taking its toll on him.
He checked out of the Connaught and took a cab to Heathrow. Even after a hot shower, her aroma pervaded his space. It was more than just her aroma that pervaded his space. It was her. This encounter was more, much more than he had ever experienced. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He was becoming aware of the growing attraction and the danger it could bring to his mission. As the short flight from London was approaching Schiphol, he reluctantly concluded that he would have to see her another time. He would have to see her soon, very soon. His meeting with Hans Benson was at 1:30, and Kim suspected it would entail lunch and other activities. Benson was a freeloader of note. Benson was Managing Director of Friepoort, a distributor of minerals, chemicals, and raw materials mostly from Asia, mainly China. At their Maastricht plant, they also processed these materials for sale in Europe and in the Middle East.
David enjoyed Amsterdam—its size, convenience, and restaurants. He usually stayed at the Krasnapolsky on Dam Square. While he liked Amsterdam, he didn’t like Hans Benson. Benson was a ruthless operator and a Palestinian who had immigrated to the Netherlands in the late 60s. Benson’s name was Saliba, which he changed to Hans after his arrival in Holland. It was time for David to update his file on Benson’s Palestinian connections. David posed as a British national who operated in North Africa, principally in Morocco as an agent of local firms. Benson had never transacted business with David, but he loved the exchange of information and David’s expense account. David and the Mossad wanted to know who the Palestinians were buying their munitions from and their current channels of distribution. Disrupting this supply would save Israeli lives.
Benson had several weaknesses—prostitutes were a principal weakness that David would pay for and supply for a not-so-subtle exchange of information. He estimated that, following a very liquid lunch with Benson, he would take him to one of his favorite red light houses, but not before he had pried out of him the information they wanted. Kim would foot the bill for the women and a night at the Krasnapolsky. Benson welcomed the opportunity to escape from Maastricht and his wife on someone else’s dime.
Kim’s business with Benson concluded at 6. He went back to the hotel and had a good soak. He had an early flight to Morocco, so an early evening suited him. He poured himself a large whiskey and pondered the wisdom of calling Milledufleur.
“Hello,” she said.
“Good evening, it’s Kim David.”
“This is an unexpected pleasure. Are you back in Morocco?”
“No, I had some unfinished business in Holland, so I thought I’d wrap that up before going to Morocco.”
“Oh, I see. When will I see you again? We talked about future assignments but nothing specific.”
“Actually, that is why I called. There are a number of details I need to review with you.”
“When?”
“Very soon.”
He rang off and sat there thinking of her. Soon, he knew, it would be soon.
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Michael Gilmartin returned to his desk in the St. Louis FBI office after his meeting with his boss Jim Donovan. Gilmartin’s brain was on fire. Donovan reviewed and tried to explain the offer that Gilmartin had received from the FBI headquarters. The offer was to be a Legal Attaché in Brussels, Belgium. After graduating from law school ten years ago, Michael had worked in the Chicago office and had transferred to the St. Louis office three years ago.
Donovan was a man of few words, always direct and to the point. His point to Michael was simple: this was one hell of an opportunity, but Washington wanted an answer by morning. Donovan told him it was urgent—he would be replacing Tom Turner, who had been in Brussels for more than five years. Turner had accumulated massive information on Abu Awami in the course of his duties. The Bureau was convinced that Awami’s group was responsible for the recent attempted assassination of Shlomo Argov, the Israeli Ambassador to the U.K. This attempt on Argov’s life precipitated Israel’s invasion of Lebanon.
Gilmartin was elated—the only complication was Judy Brown, the woman he had been seeing for the last four years. Their involvement was intimate. He was sure she would tell him to marry her and take her with him. Problem was he didn’t want to make an honest woman of Miss Brown. Physically, they were compatible, but, at least in his mind, they were far apart mentally. He was almost certain what his decision would be. Opportunities like this, if not taken, were not likely to be repeated.
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Milledufleur Rose had been in Brussels for a month in her position as “Visiting” Professor on Middle East Studies at the University of Brussels. The assassination of Anwar Sadat was just two months ago. Her rebuff of Drew Cahill coincided with the date of Sadat’s assassination.
She was reviewing a quickie exam she had sprung on her class of twenty five—most of the students were Wallons, but five of the students were Flemish. She conducted the class in French to the consternation of the Dutch speakers. This was symbolic of the tension between the two main language sects of Belgium. She was fluent in French and German as well as in Hebrew and Arabic. She went to the apartment’s bar and poured herself a large glass of Cabernet. As she settled on her divan, her phone rang—it was Kim David on the line.
“Milly, it’s Kim. I’ll be over in a flash.”
True to his word, within minutes, he entered her apartment at 25 Rue Gerard. He hustled up the stairs, pushed open the door, and enjoyed her passionate embrace and open mouth kiss.
“God, it’s good to see you Kim—you are still my charmer. Glass of whiskey?”
“Sure, three fingers. What are you serving these days?”
“Glenlivet—does that meet with your approval?”
“You bloody well know it does.”
“I know the number two man of the Mossad has an important assignment for me. I just hope it’s