by Belle Ami
The Rabbit Hole bar and grill was packed. Aryeh pushed through the door and took in the crowd. A diverse collection of people from all walks of life sat at tightly packed tables. Their voices joined in a din of overlapping conversations. There wasn’t a seat at the bar not taken by a patron. With a quick scan around, he spotted a dark haired woman with burgundy streaks in her hair sitting at the far end of the bar. She was chatting with a swarthy man, but when she saw Aryeh approach, she whispered a few words and the man stood and relinquished his seat to Aryeh. Her companion nodded his farewell and headed for the door.
Aryeh bent and kissed Zara Zayani on each cheek. Speaking in French, he said. “Who’s the suit? I hope I didn’t interrupt anything of consequence, Zara.”
“No, mon cher. I told him I was meeting with a dear friend.” She leaned in displaying her lovely cleavage.
He dropped his eyes in appreciation and then waved the bartender in for a drink.
Zara whispered, “My handlers have concluded I’m too valuable and need protection. Faiz has the good fortune of shadowing me.”
“Please bring the lady another drink and bring me a kiwi and gin infused cocktail, the one with fresh za’atar. A little spice to enliven what I hope will be a delightful evening.” He took Zara’s hand and kissed it. “Your superiors in France are wise. Your worth is inestimable.”
“Perhaps, but it makes me long for the days when I was unrecognizable. A ghost.”
“You, a ghost? Purely a figment of your imagination. You have always stood out, and may I add you are as bewitching as ever. I’ve missed you. How long has it been?”
“Remind me where we last saw each other?” Her eyes glittered with amusement.
“Was it Paris or Rome? No, I remember now Casablanca. An evening I will never forget.”
“I believe we burned the place down, didn’t we? An explosive evening in more ways than one.” She laughed.
“I’ve relegated that mission to the dustbin of failures and forgotten wishes. However, I do recall our liaison being hotter than the Sahara in summer.”
Her smile warmed him more than the delicious cocktail the waiter set before him. “I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance,” he murmured under his breath.
She raised her glass and toasted “A votre sante!”
He whispered, “La’Chaim!” They touched glasses and sipped their cocktails.
“An encore is a sign of appreciation.” She pulled playfully on his beard. “But who knows what the future holds, mon ami. Why do I suspect you haven’t come to Beirut for the simple pleasures of my bed.”
“Zara, I need your help.”
She leaned in, her breath warm on his ear. “My company is always favorably disposed to helping our Israeli friends. Would you care to be more specific?”
“I’d rather we discussed this in a more private arena.”
“Ah…in my bed for example.”
“In your bed after I wine and dine you would be more than satisfactory. Later perhaps. For now, I’d rather enjoy my time with you and catch up on your life after Morocco. There is time enough to discuss other issues.”
“You have always been a taste I can’t resist, Aryeh. It’s hard to find men of your caliber who give as much as they take.”
“I’m pleased to meet your high expectations. Were we different people, it’s doubtful I’d ever stray from your bed. Why search for the elusive when the dream is within reach?”
Her effervescent laughter drew appreciative glances from the men in the room.
“You missed your calling; you should have been a philosopher,” she said.
“There is nothing philosophical about the effect you have on the opposite sex, Zara.” He stared at her delicious lips. “There’s not a man in this room who hasn’t fallen under your spell.”
Her almond-shaped green eyes held his. “What difference does it make? There is only one man in this room who interests me.”
“I praise your good taste and my better fortune.” He clinked his glass to hers.
»»•««
Zara’s apartment was on a narrow street off the Rue Gouraud in the Gemmayzeh neighborhood, where charming old French colonial homes intermingled with cafes, restaurants, and galleries. These eclectic establishments gave the area its signature bohemian vibe. The upscale, trendy neighborhood provided the French intelligence agency’s most proven agent with a comfortable base for her collection of Humint intelligence.
Zara opened the door to her apartment, and Aryeh followed her in. Her apartment was a reflection of her, a mix of old world taste and modern comfort. She lit the gas log fireplace and then poured them each a snifter of cognac. Leaving her drink on the bar, she pulled a vinyl phonograph record out of a sleeve and placed it on her antique phonograph. Carefully she lowered the arm of the stylus. The telltale crackle of wear and tear on old vinyl blended with the haunting voice of Billie Holliday.
She raised her snifter to his. “Jazz is the music of spies, Aryeh.”
“And why do you think so, Zara?”
“Jazz musicians and spies are both masters of improvisation. We are creative soloists that thrive on nonconformance. We must think outside the box, reinventing ourselves as the rules of engagement change.” She wrapped one arm around his neck and pressed against him. They swayed against each other in the firelight.
The woman and the alcohol worked their magic. When he kissed her, she tasted of cognac. He ran his lips down her throat. Her scent of almonds and cinnamon intoxicated him in a way no other woman ever did. Her skin, the color of caramelized sugar, smooth and soft as a newborn’s, was what he dreamed about when he wasn’t planning his next mission. Her allure was irresistible, an indulgence he had never refused.
He knew he was putting Zara in danger by being with her. He was about to become a target of Hezbollah and Mossad. If she helped him, she would find herself ensnared in a trap with him. What they felt for one another wasn’t something they ever spoke about. Their relationship had no chance of becoming more than a few stolen hours given their employment as spies. But every once and a while even hidden feelings need a voice, an acknowledgment. “I wondered if you would even answer my message to meet?” He asked.
“After all we’ve been through together. How could you even entertain such a foolish thought?”
Moments frozen in memory played across his mind. Their escape from a burning Berber camp near Casablanca and nearly dying of exposure in the desert. Bleeding and bruised, climbing from beneath the rubble of a train in Belgium that a terrorist’s bomb had derailed. Working together defusing a bomb destined for the Israeli embassy seconds before it would have exploded in a banlieue tenement slum in Paris. He laughed aloud. Their courtship was always set amid death and devastation yet the purity of their relationship had never changed.
“What’s so funny, mon cher? I insist you share. It’s not fair for you to joke at my expense.”
“Most lovers share memories of romantic assignations: a beach, a cabin in the mountains, a cruise in the Caribbean. We share the pleasure of heart-pounding life or death experiences, of bloodbaths and bruises, of ticking bombs, and narrow escapes.”
The light went out of her eyes. “It’s who we’ve become, mon dieu. It’s who they’ve made us.”
“Do you ever think about who you’d be if Jacob wasn’t murdered? If that IED hadn’t exploded at Saint-Michel? What if his train pulled away safely and he lived? Would Zara the spy be living an ordinary life, married with children? I sometimes picture you as that linguistics professor who taught at the Sorbonne.”
“When I lost my brother, my life changed forever. All I cared about was revenge. There can never be a normal so long as monsters wage war on the innocent.” She sniffled taking a large sip of cognac. “No use dwelling on what might have been, Aryeh. The woman who taught at the Sorbonne died a long time ago with Jacob. The woman who emerged from the ashes bears no resemblance to her.”
She studied his face. “You need to focus on what you
can change. Not on what might have been, but what is. Right now there’s a woman who needs you. Make me forget everything, Aryeh.” She leaned in and brushed her lips against his. “You’ve always been good at making me forget.”
Desire traveled through his body, and his hands wrapped around her slender waist. “It’s a good thing we’re on the same side because there’s little I want to deny you.”
The sparkle had returned to her eyes. Zara took his hand and led him to a doorway hung with jeweled beads and tiny bells. “My foolproof alarm system.” She ran her fingers through the beads, and a tinkling of bells sounded.
He laughed. “Quite a deterrent.”
“My deterrent is loaded and ready on the nightstand. This—” Zara strummed her fingers across the beads and bells. “This is a psychological diversion.”
When the temptress tigress melted beneath him, he finished her with a fury that left them both soaked and breathless. Filling his lungs, he ran his tongue up her neck to her earlobe and nibbled the delicate flesh. She lay beneath him spread-eagled and spent with exhaustion. A good hour had passed since they’d removed each other’s clothing and begun their dance to ecstasy.
“Hmm, Zara, making love to you is better than a year of therapy.”
When she smiled, the love bites on her lips deepened to the color of burgundy wine. “That was delicious, mon amour. You’ve lived up to your name. You are the king of the jungle.”
He was tempted to roar in her ear like the king of beasts. Instead, he licked her ear eliciting a chain of giggles.
“You reduce me to a mere kitty cat,” he laughed. “Meow.”
“Stop.” She tried to slap him away. When he persisted, she slithered from beneath him and flipped him, straddling him on the bed.
“Uncle.” He surrendered, raising his fingers in the peace sign. “Make love, not war.”
She released him and nestled in the crook of his arm. Drumming her fingers on his chest, she asked, “Seriously. Why are you here, Aryeh?”
“I need your help, Zara?”
“I’m listening, mon amour.”
“My nephew Gideon Riese was captured while on patrol on the Israeli Lebanese border by Hezbollah. A month has passed, and all attempts to negotiate his release have failed. I’d been working on a case, but that case has been favorably closed.”
“I read about the Iranian Hezbollah plot to blow up the reactor at Three Mile Island. I heard a rumor Mossad was working hand-in-hand with the FBI.”
“Rumors travel fast in our business. I was never involved with the FBI, but some were.”
She laughed. “Of course you weren’t. Knowing you, you slipped in and out without leaving a fingerprint.” She sat up retrieving their glasses of cognac. They sipped silently for a moment. Her expressive eyes conveyed compassion. “I’m sorry about your nephew.”
He stared into the amber liquid. “It’s become a nightmare. When I came home my sister, Gideon’s mother, had a nervous breakdown. I have no children. Gideon is the only one to carry the family name. My parents are devastated. My family cannot survive this—I have to do something. I need your help.”
She swallowed a large sip of the cognac. “In what way can I be of help?”
“There’s a mole at Mossad. It’s likely he’s leaked information to Hezbollah, and they know Gideon is my nephew. My being Mossad puts his life in more danger. They know I won’t sit by and do nothing. I can’t live with this Zara.”
“I’ll make inquiries, but what do you have besides yourself that we can barter with?”
“Fifty million in diamonds.”
Zara’s eyes widened. “How? Where did you get them?”
“Mossad.”
“You stole diamonds? From Mossad?”
“I’m a dead man walking. Soon I’ll be a target of my agency.” He hated lying to her, but for his plan to work, it was crucial that Zara buy his story. He was sending her into the lion’s den, and her safety depended on it.
“You can’t give these murderous thugs fifty million in diamonds. Every dollar they get they spent on drugs to fund terrorism, and wars to destabilize the Middle East.”
“Do you have a better idea? I’m certainly not going to give them information that will harm my country.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Put me in touch with Hezbollah. Tell them I’ve gone rogue, that I’ve stolen diamonds and I’m willing to pay them a hefty ransom for Gideon.”
“You can’t do this Aryeh. It’s not who you are.”
“Tell me, Zara, what would you have given to save Jacob?”
Her shoulders sank. “Let me think about this. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Time is of the essence—I have to move quickly.”
“Tomorrow night I’ll message you and meet you at the Rabbit Hole.”
“Thank you, Zara. I knew I could count on you.”
She pulled on his beard. “You are going to owe me big time for this one, mon ami.”
He took the drink from her hand and set it on the nightstand. Then he pulled her in and ran his lips up her neck to her ear. His warm whisper produced a shudder. “Why wait for your payback, why not take a small down payment now?” His fingers traveled the length of her body seeking the heat that emanated from her core. She arched, pressing her body against his touch and moaned. “This is a good start, but don’t think it will settle your debt.”
“I’m at your service. Take whatever you want. Whenever you want, and by all means, as much as you want.”
»»•««
Aryeh gave a sleepy Zara a quick kiss and whispered, “I’ll see you tonight.”
Groggily, she mumbled. “Do you want me to make you coffee before you go?”
“No. I’ll get it on my walk back to the hotel. I need some air to clear my head. Last night surpassed my expectations.”
A tiny smile graced her lips. “Prepare yourself…I’m not done with you yet.”
“Now that is reassuring.” He slapped her buttocks affectionately. “Jusqu'à ce soir.”
Outside Zara’s home, he scanned the street, a habit ingrained in him from years of being an operative. Nothing seemed untoward, and he took a moment to inhale the aromas particular to Beirut. The salty scent of the sea and Shisha smoke filled his senses, while the perfume of lemons aroused his hunger.
Aryeh smiled to himself. The night with Zara had satisfied him in every way. He looked forward to spending another evening with the incomparable agent. If anyone could find Gideon, it would be Zara. Her resources ran the gamut of intelligence operatives to terrorist thugs. Her cover as a journalist for Le Figaro was one of the best covers a spy could have. It had given her access to the PR driven Hezbollah, and she’d even scored the unthinkable an interview with Hezbollah’s secretary general Hassan Nasrallah. If he knew his femme fatale, she’d go straight to the top of Hezbollah. The thought of infiltrating the upper echelon of the terrorist organization made the blood surge in his veins.
The morning was still cool, and he’d decided to walk the two-plus miles to his hotel on Chouran Street. After the rush of an exciting evening with Zara, he needed time to gather his thoughts. He knew she would deliver and soon he would be in contact with Gideon’s kidnappers. Fifty million in diamonds wasn’t something a terrorist organization like Hezbollah could ignore.
It was time he checked in with the Ramsad. He needed to know when his team would arrive in Beirut on their purported mission of apprehending him and returning him to Israel. He knew by now, Cyrus Hassani was in charge of his team. It had been his suggestion to the Ramsad before he left for Beirut that Cyrus becomes the leader of his Kidon team.
Aryeh knew well what Cyrus Hassani had accomplished. Cyrus was a legendary spy, yet since he’d returned to Israel, he’d sat at the Iran desk at Mossad working analysis. Cyrus was a man with a target on his head, and with good reason, Mossad had taken him out of the field. The mullahs of Iran considered him a deadly traitor. But four years
was long enough to waste the skills of such a prodigious asset. It was time to put him back into play, and what could be more important than stopping the terrorist nations of North Korea and Iran, and their terrorist proxy group Hezbollah from detonating a nuclear bomb in the upper atmosphere? A nuclear detonation capable of unleashing an electromagnetic pulse killing millions of people. The rogue nations would be free to wreak havoc and terrorize the world at will. The world was on the brink of chaos and only the team, and he could stop it.
Aryeh knew as he walked the streets of an awakening Beirut that the peace and tranquility surrounding him was a deception. The ablutions of everyday existence, the raising of metal grills on storefronts, umbrellas being opened by sleepy waiters in front of restaurants, and the aroma of rich dark espresso brewed fresh every day seemed ordinary in every respect. The reality was that somewhere in the southern suburb of Dahieh, Hezbollah’s seat of power, a deadly plot was unfolding that threatened the existence of Israel and the United States.
He’d cut a deal with the Ramsad. He and the team would destroy the ballistic missiles and kill the nuclear physicists and rocket engineers sent from North Korea to oversee the electromagnetic pulse strike, and he’d be given the leeway to negotiate a deal to bring Gideon home. As for the Hezbollah overlords who were overseeing the project, they’d get what they deserved, an early grave.
He smiled, enjoying his morning constitutional. If the plan worked, he would return to Israel having saved the world from the apocalypse, and save his nephew to boot.
Chapter Four
Mustafa Mugniyeh exited his armored car surrounded by his bodyguards. At thirty years old, he was one of the youngest members of Hezbollah’s Jihad Council. He’d recently assumed Hezbollah’s military command after his uncle Mustafa Badreddine’s assassination. Badreddine had been murdered under suspicious circumstances near the Damascus airport. The hit most likely carried out by Mossad.
