Ransom

by Belle Ami

  “Yes. The North Koreans arrived, but are squirreled up in a hotel in Beirut.”

  “Hezbollah is most likely entertaining them with a smorgasbord of harem girls. The clock is running, but my guess is we still have time. The most important thing is Gideon. He must be alive, or we’d have heard.”

  “Let us hope. When it comes to captured Israeli soldiers, Hezbollah’s past negotiations haven’t usually worked out. Too many times we bring them home in body-bags.”

  “Trust but verify,” said the Ramsad.

  What if all of this supposed interest in the diamonds was only a ploy to get to him and Gideon was dead already? Aryeh suppressed the anger that simmered just below the surface at the possibility. If Hezbollah was lying and Gideon already murdered, he swore he’d exact vengeance on them. Soon he’d know for certain whether he was bringing home the remains of his nephew or the living, breathing man.

  The Ramsad, as usual, read his mind. “Stay positive and focused Aryeh. Don’t let your imagination get ahead of you. I know this is personal, but you must remain detached. Cyrus is your man, use him. There is more to lose here than just Gideon.”

  “You’re right, sir.”

  “Keep me posted. Shalom.”

  »»•««

  Beirut Central District

  Office of Le Figaro

  Zara put the finishing touches on her article about the poor condition and neglect of animals at Beirut’s zoo. She was nearly immune to man’s barbarity to his fellow man. However, cruelty to innocent animals incensed her. In a connecting office Faiz, her photographer and bodyguard, busily edited his digital photos for the expose. The article with its graphic images was bound to stir things up among animal lovers. Within Zara, a fragile thread remained of the academic idealist she once was.

  Animals weren’t the only thing on her mind as she typed. Zara had a sixth sense about people. Her curiosity had been ignited when she’d bumped into the young man after her meeting with Nasrallah. True, he was handsome, and she’d found herself strangely attracted to him. But there was something else, a familiarity, and then, of course, the cockiness he exhibited drew her like a moth to a flame. All of it contributed to her curiosity and kept him preeminent in her thoughts.

  The building security desk rang her phone. “There’s a gentleman at security named Mustafa Mugniyeh who would like to see you.”

  Imad’s son? “Please ask him what this is concerning? He doesn’t have an appointment.” Her thoughts were racing. She didn’t know Mustafa, but she was alarmed as to why the son of one of the deadliest terrorists in the world wanted to speak with her?

  “He says it’s personal.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, send him up.”

  She was astonished when she saw him on the security camera standing outside of the office door. It was him. The same man she’d bumped into at Hezbollah headquarters. She observed him for a second as he stared up into the camera.

  She pressed the intercom. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Zara, I mean Alanisa Zayani, I would like to speak with you?”

  “About what?”

  “It is personal, and I would rather see your face when I address you.”

  “I don’t know you. Why should I trust you mean me no harm? Did Hassan Nasrallah send you?”

  His eyes filled with darkness. “I am not an errand boy for Hassan. I am here for myself.”

  “I’m very busy, and I only have a few minutes to give you.” The door clicked, unlocking and he entered. She stood next to her desk and examined him closely. Just inside the entry he stopped and looked around him. When his eyes locked on her, he waited.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea or coffee?”

  He gave her a smile that could melt butter. “Tea would be lovely.”

  She walked to an open doorway, feeling his gaze following her. “Faiz, I have a guest would you be kind enough to go to the coffee shop and get a coffee for me and tea for my visitor?”

  “Sure, Zara.” When Faiz followed her to the reception area, he extended his hand to Mustafa. “Faiz Khoury pleased to meet you.”

  “Just call me Mustafa, the pleasure is mine.” He offered no last name and Zara could see the tightness in his smile. He was upset at seeing Faiz, a man alone with her.

  “Well, I’ll be on my way.” With a curt nod of his head, Faiz walked out the door.

  “Who is he?” Mustafa thinly disguised his displeasure.

  She folded her arms across her chest signaling her displeasure at his impertinence. “Faiz and I work closely together; he’s my photographer. Besides, it’s none of your business who he is.” She indicated a chair. “Please sit.” She took the one across from him. “Again, I ask you what is the reason for your being here?”

  “Zara, may I call you Zara?”

  “Yes, of course. Please state your purpose, or should I assume you’re here to apologize.”

  “Apologize for what?”

  “For your rudeness this morning.”

  His lip quivered, hinting at a smile. “I’m not in the habit of making apologies when young women plow through me. However, for you, Zara, I’m happy to do so since I’m pleased that you remember me.”

  “Apology accepted. Now you can be on your way unless there is another reason for your visit.” She sat back and crossed her legs.

  “There is another reason. I’m interested for you to write an article about the situation in Syria. Why Hezbollah is supporting Assad?” He rubbed his hands together. It was clear to her he wasn’t telling the truth. The article wasn’t the reason he was here. Curious, she thought.

  “I’ve done many articles on Syria. Why would your insights shed any new light on what is already known?”

  “I’ve just returned from Syria. There is much I can enlighten you about the current situation.”

  Zara studied his face. “Okay, you’ve captured my attention. Perhaps we can schedule a lunch, and I’ll interview you.”

  “I won’t be in Beirut long. Zara, would you indulge me and join me for dinner.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Please, I promise it will be worth your time.”

  She stared at him. His unexplained visit had nothing to do with an interview. She was sure of it. “I have to finish the article I’m working on but if you’d like I’ll meet you at Babel Bay at seven.”

  “Do you not trust me enough to pick you up at your home?”

  “Mustafa if you want to find out where I live I’m sure you could get one of your flunkies to do it in minutes. I’ll take a cab to the restaurant, and you can bring me home. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  His smile was almost genuine. “You are an expert at dismissing me it seems.”

  “What would you have me do? Wrap my arms around you and kiss you goodbye.”

  He stared at her lips and smiled. Standing. “What an audacious thought. I am at your service.” He strode to the door and opened it. Faiz walked up the hallway with the beverages. Mustafa held the door open for him.

  “Leaving so soon?” Faiz asked.

  Mustafa thumped Faiz on the back nearly causing him to drop the drinks. “Sorry, for having wasted your time. Enjoy the tea.” He turned, his gaze taking her in from head to toe. “I’ll see you at seven.”

  She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was annoyed by his disrespect and treatment of Faiz. Tonight she would put him in his place.

  »»•««

  Zara turned off her computer. After Mustafa left, she’d spent the rest of the day accessing secure Interpol, and other law enforcement sites for any mention of Mustafa. She didn’t find much. There was plenty of information on his father and uncle and even his brother, but he was like a ghost. She, of course, had spent much of her espionage career as a ghost, so she wasn’t surprised.

  The more she considered Mustafa’s sudden interest in her, the more she realized running into him might prove to be a gift. He w
as of the next generation and probably being groomed to lead. She shook her head in disgust. Imagine, raising a child to become a terrorist? The unfortunate trend was occurring over much of the Middle East. What had become of their scientists, their literary giants, their poets? Instead, they were busy creating a generation of experts who specialized in the manufacture of suicide vests and bombs. Her job was to stop them in their tracks.

  Mustafa presented a perfect target. A man whom she could convince to deliver secrets by ensnaring him in her web. If she could gain his trust, she might be able to penetrate the internal workings of Hezbollah. He fit the profile, but she would have to play him carefully. He was probably trained by the Quds force, a graduate of Terrorism 101, just like his father and uncle, but after tonight she would have a handle on what his potential as a source might be.

  He’d expended considerable effort in tracking her down, and he’d put himself at considerable risk doing so. He was going against what was ingrained into him since childhood, trust no one, particularly women. She wondered how far he would go to satisfy this obvious desire he was experiencing. How much of herself would she have to give to hook him? If he proved to be the mother lode, she’d give it all and seduce him completely. But like torture, she knew slow was better. She needed to make sure the barb was embedded deep. Women didn’t factor much in his world. They existed primarily to satisfy the desires of their fathers, husbands, and children. Entrapping a man like Mustafa was a dangerous prospect, but one that might prove to be extremely valuable. In fact, she found the pursuit of him stimulating.

  For the first time in all their years of working together, she dreaded the quagmire of talking to Aryeh about Mustafa and taking him into her confidence. But not telling him would destroy a relationship built on trust. She was an expert at straddling a fine line, but Aryeh was in a vulnerable position. For the moment he was a man without a country, which was never a good place to be for a spy.

  »»•««

  Zara followed the maître d' outside. She’d worn her sexiest dress, an Azzedine Alaia green banded knit that displayed her every curve. Purposely chosen, she wanted Mustafa to know she was nothing like the women he was accustomed to. She was a Western woman, a species of woman she was certain in his insular world he’d never encountered before.

  Mustafa jumped to his feet when she arrived, and she was glad she’d worn stilettos. He was tall, and she disliked looking up at a man. When he kissed her, his breath was warm on her cheek, and his lips lingered perhaps a few seconds too long.

  He clasped her hand and indicated the seat next to him. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You’ve done me a great honor meeting me.”

  She smiled demurely. “You’ve awoken my curiosity. How could I refuse?”

  “Still I’m grateful you were free tonight.”

  “How could I pass up the chance to dine with the son of Imad. There are not many dynasties founded on terrorism.” Zara twisted the knife, relishing the torment she saw in his eyes. She had no intention of mincing words about what she thought of his family.

  “I do not drink, but I’ve ordered you a bottle of Champagne, the best on the menu. You do like Champagne?” She appreciated his ignoring the barb; it showed control.

  “I’m French, of course, I love Champagne. But if you aren’t sharing it with me, I won’t drink. The first of our differences so quickly revealed.”

  She looked around the room as if everything and anything were of more interest to her than him.

  He frowned. “I have never tasted an alcoholic beverage.”

  “A virgin, how charming.” She smiled at him, indulgently. “There’s always a first time. I don’t believe you’ll turn into a pillar of salt, or you’ll be denied your seventy virgins upon ascending to heaven.” She gently laid her hand on his thigh and felt the muscles tremble. She was teasing him in every way imaginable, and she was enjoying it. She removed her hand.

  The waiter arrived to pour her Champagne, but she waved her hand over her flute indicating no. Mustafa took her hand in his. “Pour us both, please.”

  She matched his gaze. “Yes, do.”

  She lifted her glass and waited for him to lift his. Then she twined her arm through his and toasted. “To us, Mustafa and our budding friendship.” He sipped, watching her lips.

  “Well,” she asked. “What do you think?”

  “It’s an interesting taste, but I feel nothing.”

  She ignored his boast. Why did men always equate their tolerance to alcohol as a demonstration of their strength? “So, Mustafa this is where we begin to learn about each other. I tell you the story of my life, and you share the story of your life. And later we can discuss this article you propose on Syria.”

  “I want to know everything about you. Syria will have to wait.”

  “Everything? I think our conversation might be longer than this meal. If I recall correctly, you said you haven’t got much time.”

  “I’m not planning on learning everything in one night. I’m thinking of a more long-term relationship.”

  She took another sip of Champagne, and leaned toward him, closing the gap between them. “You’re married are you not? And you have a son. Why don’t we start there?”

  He gulped the glass of Champagne down. She was startled to see a curtain of sadness shadow his eyes. “You want the truth?”

  “I only deal in truths. It’s my job, and my life.”

  Mustafa motioned for the waiter. Please bring us a sampling of your best mezza and put another bottle of Champagne on ice.” The waiter topped off their glasses, bowed and scurried away. Mustafa gazed into her eyes. “Where to start?”

  “Wherever makes you comfortable. You have my complete attention.” She returned his gaze and watched his eyes drift to her lips. “Are you going to talk to me, or kiss me?”

  His lips twitched. “I want to kiss you.”

  She gave him her most seductive smile. “A kiss? I’m afraid our relationship hasn’t risen to a kissing level of intimacy. You did say this was a business affiliation, did you not?” She rested her chin on her hand and fluttered her lashes at him. “Please, begin your story. You have my undivided attention.”

  He took a deep breath and dragged his gaze from her lips. “There seems to be a glaring hole in your research on me, Zara. My wife and son were killed last month by the Israelis.”

  Zara blanched. “I…I…I’m very sorry, Mustafa. I had no idea. Forgive me.”

  He smiled. “It’s not your fault. I have to be honest with you, I was never in love with my wife, and I don’t believe she was in love with me. My father arranged the marriage. The loss of my son, of course, is a great sadness to me.”

  Zara felt pity for him, which was not a good thing. She needed to remain detached. She steered the conversation away. “Why are we here, Mustafa?”

  “I never considered love to be of consequence.” He averted his gaze as if uneasy with his words. “When I saw you I was instantly attracted. It’s never happened to me before.” His eyes returned to her face, and it was as if he were memorizing every part of it. “Everything in my life has been planned. You are the exception, and I believe there is a reason. What do you think?”

  “I see. If you’re asking me whether or not I’m attracted to you? I won’t lie, I am. But what purpose can this serve?” The waiter returned interrupting. He arranged an assortment of small plates before them. Zara tore a piece of pita and scooped up some hummus with tahini dip and garnished it with a pickle. “Open up.” Mustafa opened his mouth, and she fed him. A trace remained on her finger, and he watched when she sucked it clean.

  “You are playing with me,” he said.

  She smiled. “Perhaps.” Enjoying his bewilderment, she removed an artichoke petal and dipped it in the lemon za’atar dipping sauce and ran her teeth and lips delicately over it eating the flesh. “Your father and uncle did they have a major influence on your life?” She filled his plate with a little of everything and then filled her o
wn.

  “They shaped who I am. My father and uncle are men of legend. In our world, they are considered to be great men and martyrs of our people.” He watched everything she did closely. She felt as if she was under the lens of a microscope.

  Frowning, she took a sip of Champagne. “I suppose greatness depends on whose side of the fence you're sitting on and what your definition of greatness is. Some would call them murderers and terrorists.”

  She ignored the anger darkening his eyes.

  Nonchalantly she added. “You wanted the truth, did you not?”

  He said nothing.

  “I’m a journalist, Mustafa. I hold a worldview completely different from yours.”

  “I understand why it’s hard for outsiders to understand why we fight.”

  “You’re wrong, I understand perfectly.”

  “And you disagree. What I do has nothing to do with us.”

  “No, I do not agree. What we believe has everything to do with us. I believe in negotiation. Civilly working out our differences. Not violently upending the fabric of life. And what do you mean by us?”

  “The destiny between us.” There was an unmistakable softening of his gaze, and it drew her.

  She studied his face. “And what is this destiny we share?”

  “You will understand it soon enough, habibi. I felt it the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

  His endearment of baby was revealing. “You’ve admitted to knowing nothing of love.”

  “I said I knew nothing of love.” His eyes bore into hers. “Tell me about your life.”

  She shared the truth omitting what she couldn’t share. It wouldn’t do to share her employment by the French intelligence agency, or her Jewish blood. But the most important omission was Jacob, her twin brother, who’d been murdered by terrorists during a train bombing in Paris.

  Mustafa asked few questions and didn’t interrupt her flow of words. She expounded on her childhood in Tangier, and the difficult move to Marseilles. She explained in detail her family’s struggles to build a new life. At one point she grew tearful when she spoke of her parent's disappointment that she’d been stationed in Beirut and lived so far away. It was easy to become emotional when she spoke of how much she missed her family. Zara knew when to show her vulnerability and when to bring down the hammer. She was an expert at wrapping bars of steel around a man’s heart, capturing, and ensnaring it until it belonged to her. She wanted to kindle his male instinct to protect. It was important for her to show vulnerability.