Amanda curled up with Astarte and Venus in the tent, leaving Cam tapping away on his laptop at a picnic table in the dark. She had no idea what to believe anymore. Only one thing was clear: Cam was either one hundred percent guilty, or one hundred percent innocent. So why was she fifty-fifty on which it was?
In the middle of the night she awoke with a start, a heavy feeling pushing down on her chest. She had always assumed there were only two choices: Either Cam was romantically involved with the red-haired woman, or she was part of a surveillance team following them. It now suddenly occurred to her, in the dark cool air of the campground, that there was a third choice: It could be both. The woman could be an operative and have seduced Cam at the hotel bar as part of some plan to influence his research. Cam had confidently maintained that he did not know her—that she was not a college girlfriend as the letter claimed—because he had just met her that night at the hotel bar.
The realization should have made her feel better. At worst, her fiancé had succumbed to a one-night temptation while alone in a strange city. But it did not. The reality, she now feared, was that her fiancé had cheated on her and they were being followed by a group that appeared to have both lethal intentions and lethal capability. She didn’t believe Cam had done so, but she couldn’t get it out of her head that he might have. And that doubt, she knew, was poisoning her love for him.
The sounds of the woods around them suddenly seemed ominous, foreboding, menacing. She would not sleep more tonight. And perhaps never again with the man she loved.
Chapter 11
Duncan Sinclair’s secretary stuck her head in the door of his corner office overlooking the majestic Edinburgh Castle, glowing gold in the morning sun. The castle, along with the soaring gothic tower honoring Sir Walter Scott rising up in the foreground, reminded Duncan of the great Scots who had come before him. Men like Robert Louis Stevenson and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, true literary giants. And economists like Adam Smith and inventors like Alexander Graham Bell. And, of course, his own Sinclair ancestors. “Yes, Dolores.”
“You have a call from a gentleman named Dov.” They were the only two people in the bank at this early hour; he was technically retired, as was Dolores, but he had continued his lifelong habit of being at the office by six every morning. “I believe he is calling from Israel.”
“Yes. Put him through.”
The man did not waste time on niceties. “I am afraid I have bad news. This dog’s name you asked for—we are unable to obtain it.”
Duncan smiled. It was as he expected. “I thought you had access to the son?”
“We do. And this should have been a relatively simple assignment. But sometimes things are not as they seem.”
Indeed. “And you are certain the son pushed for this?”
“We believe so, yes. Pushing further would jeopardize our source.”
“Sir, are you in a position of authority?”
“I am.”
“In that case I think you would find it worth your while to visit Edinburgh. It is beautiful this time of year. And I have a proposal that I believe you will find enticing.”
“I have a plane at my disposal. I can be there in six hours.”
Duncan hung up and stared out over the city, just beginning its morning bustle. This call provided the confirmation he was looking for. The son could not discover the name of his father’s dog because Zuberi Youssef was dead. The tyrant’s wife had done it, just as she claimed.
Duncan smiled. One must never underestimate a member of the Sinclair Clan.
At four in the morning Cam had grabbed a couple of hours sleep wrapped in a blanket in the corner of their tent, but he woke with the sun, stiff and sore. He made some instant coffee, resisted the urge to go for a run, and clicked on his laptop to continue working.
“Last day of May,” he whispered to himself. “What a freaking month.” It would be nice to put Out of Egypt behind him before the calendar turned to June.
An hour later Amanda and Astarte awoke, and Cam joined them for a quick breakfast of granola bars and juice. “There’s a convenience store down the road,” Amanda said. “Astarte and I will take a walk with Venus.”
“I’m closing in. With any luck, I’ll finish the manuscript today.”
She nodded. “I have a few things to add to that chapter I was working on. I’ll be done by lunch.” She studied him for a second. “Do you really think all this goes away once you send the manuscript to Zuberi?”
He exhaled. “I’m hoping none of this—the Groton property, the photos, the guys tailing us—is personal. They want to stop my research, yes, but they don’t really care about me personally. So once the research is out, hopefully they just move on. Maybe they’ll try to discredit me in some way,” he said, shrugging, “but after this past month, they can say whatever they want as long as they leave us alone.”
“So are you going to include the Isaac Question stuff?”
Cam swallowed. He had been thinking about it most of the night. “I don’t think I have any choice—Zuberi is going to insist on it. And even if he didn’t, I’d want to include it. Think of all the horrible things done over the centuries by the Church just to whitewash religious history. I can’t be part of that.” He sighed. “But I do have an idea on how to mitigate its impact.”
Duncan’s mid-afternoon meeting with the Israeli intelligence official who called himself Dov had gone as smoothly as could be expected. Like Zuberi Youssef, the man had refused his invitation to dine at one of the many fine restaurants in Edinburgh’s New Town district. Men today simply didn’t appreciate the importance of sealing a deal with prime rib and a fine brandy. Doing business over a cup of coffee and a pastry did not carry with it the same level of ceremonial formality.
But the Israeli, again like Zuberi, had been reasonable in his demands. Two hours after they first sat Dov phoned Tel Aviv, and a half hour after that received approval to proceed. “It is good that you work quickly,” Duncan had said. “The widow no doubt has her hands full keeping her ruse going.”
That was five hours ago. In the interim Dov, presumably with help from the local bureau chief, had put together a team of three men and two women. The five of them, along with Duncan and Dov, rode in silence in a van west along A90. A few miles from the city they turned onto a local road and ascended Corstorphine Hill. At the end of a winding gravel drive a stone castle rose in front of them, the top of its single turret lit by the last rays of the setting sun. Duncan nodded; it was a home worthy of the four-million-pound price Youssef famously had paid for it.
Hopefully for him it had been a good place to die.
Carrington met them in the driveway. Duncan stepped from the van while the others waited. This was his first face-to-face meeting with his cousin. He eyed her as he approached—he had expected someone darker and more menacing. This woman looked like a book store manager, not a killer. Duncan reminded himself that Zuberi Youssef had made the fatal mistake of underestimating her; he would not do the same. He extended a hand and bowed to her. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, cousin Carrington.”
“Likewise.” She smiled, a bit of perspiration on her upper lip. Unfortunately for her, she did not possess the high cheekbones and thin face of most Sinclairs.
“I assume you have sent the staff home,” he said.
“Yes. The gardener and his family are in the caretaker’s house, but the home itself is empty.” She eyed the van. “Who is with you?”
“Trusted associates. That is all you need to know.”
She nodded. “Very well. I will bring you to the body.” She edged closer. “And if you betray me, I’ll have you killed.”
The words, coming so matter-of-factly from this dowdy woman, disconcerted him. He forced a smile. “I’m eighty-four. What difference would it make?”
“You may be old, but you are full of life. You love life, every second of it.” She motioned to the van. “Otherwise you’d be in some home with the other codgers.”
He nodded. “Guilty as charged.” What else was he to say?
“I’m not bluffing, you know. I offed the other Freemason, Randall Sid.”
This time Duncan could not hide his surprise. “You did that?” The Sovereign Commanders had assumed it had been ISIS, or perhaps an accident as the police maintained. “Pray tell, why?”
“Put your team to work, then I’ll tell you,” she responded.
Ten minutes later, now inside the master suite, she continued her explanation. “I killed Sid because of the photographs. There was no reason for that. You almost spooked Thorne. I couldn’t have that.”
Duncan nodded. He guessed Zuberi—or perhaps Carrington, as things now appeared—had decided to monitor Randall Sid once Sid began to take a special interest in Thorne and his research. “That was a poor piece of work, I must admit,” Duncan said. “But Randall insisted upon it. Randall believed at some point Thorne might need an incentive to continue his work, a reason to help us broker a deal with Youssef. Perhaps a problem could be made to go away.” He shrugged. “A gentle push, if you will.”
“Yes, well, it was Mr. Sid who got the push. And not so gentle a one.” She pursed her lips, her eyes narrow. “Because of those doctored photos, and the implicit threat behind them, there was a risk Thorne would walk away from his research. He even accused Zuberi of being behind the photos, which is how I learned of them. Fortunately Zuberi was able to assure him otherwise and Thorne continued his research for us.”
Duncan merely shrugged. Perhaps she had been right to eliminate Sid before he could advance his ham-fisted attempt to influence Thorne’s research.
Carrington continued. “At a time when we needed Thorne to be focused, your clumsy play only served to distract him.” She held his eyes. “And Amanda as well. Did it ever occur to you that her contributions to this research were almost as important as his? You Masons think you’re so smart, but how intelligent could you be when you still do not understand the importance of a woman like Amanda in her partner’s research?” She snorted. “You still do not even admit women to your little club. Sid and his clumsy ploy left me no choice. I assume you will not be so imprudent, cousin.”
Duncan smiled and put a hand up defensively. “Neither imprudent nor impudent. We have a deal. I have nothing to gain by betraying you. And you are correct, I do cherish my remaining time in this fascinating world, however short it may be.” He moved the conversation to safer ground. “You expect Thorne’s manuscript shortly?”
“Today or tomorrow. Thursday at the latest.”
“But this will be only a first draft.”
“Yes. But once it is submitted, there is nothing Thorne can do to prevent it from being published. He signed a contract to produce a book, for which he will be entitled to remuneration. The publisher is authorized to make reasonable edits and revisions, so long as the substance is not changed.”
Duncan nodded. “I see. So first draft or not, once Thorne sends the manuscript to you he loses the right to alter its content.”
“Yes. Zuberi was concerned he might get cold feet, so he inserted the appropriate language in the contract.”
Duncan paused. “And do you think Thorne will broach this Isaac Question, as everyone seems to be calling it?”
Carrington exhaled. “Zuberi seemed to think he would. And Zuberi was an astute judge of character.”
Two team members wheeled Zuberi’s embalmed, fully-dressed corpse down the hallway in a wheelchair. Duncan smiled at Carrington, his respect for her having grown many-fold over the past hour. “Apparently not as astute as he might have been.”
Tamara’s phone rang, the ringtone like a metal fork scraping across a porcelain plate. She fumbled for a night light and jabbed at the infuriating device. Of all the things about her job, the one thing she would never get used to was being awoken in the middle of the night.
“What?” she mumbled, seeing Moshe’s number on her screen.
“The plane left Scotland five hours ago, at two o’clock their time. It will land in Jordan in an hour, where it is already morning.”
She checked her clock. One in the morning. “I assume Zuberi Youssef is on board.” It was an obvious observation, but she needed a few seconds for her brain to engage.
“Yes. Our agents are serving as pilot and crew.”
“Were you able to arrange a meeting with that swine Khaled?” The thought of that butcher swept away her drowsiness.
“Through Youssef’s email account, yes.”
She knew the plan. Khaled would be let aboard the plane and searched, per Youssef’s normal protocol. The crew of Mossad agents would then quickly disembark to another waiting plane, which would be ready to depart immediately. “Have the Jordanians agreed to cooperate?”
“Cooperate, no? But they are willing to not interfere. They have no love for ISIS either. They will allow our plane to depart.”
“And Khaled? Is the plan unchanged?”
“Unchanged. He will enter the cabin and find a dead Youssef waiting for him. It is a subtle, but unmistakable message: Fuck with us, and we’ll get you.”
They had made the decision not to kill him. “I still think we should take him out,” Tamara argued.
“No. It is better this way. Plus the Jordanians might then not allow our crew to depart. Khaled will leave the plane like a dog whose nose was pushed into his urine after peeing in the house. He will know who his master is. This is more valuable to us than making him a martyr.”
She sighed. “Very well. But why are you so sure Khaled will assume it was Mossad who killed Youssef?”
“The large Star of David hanging around Youssef’s neck will be a good clue. Even a donkey like Khaled should be able to figure it out.”
Tamara couldn’t help but smile at the imagery. Khaled would try to keep it quiet, not wanting other arms dealers to know what happened to those who sold arms to ISIS. But the story would run on the morning news. Worldwide.
This, Tamara knew, was the real beauty of the plan. Mossad would get credit for assassinating a feared arms dealer, but without fear of retaliation. And the message to other arms dealers was both clear and stark: Sell arms to ISIS, and you’ll likely end up dead like Zuberi Youssef.
With a Jewish star around your neck.
Chapter 12
Cam sat at the campground picnic table, staring at the clock on his laptop screen as the sun rose along the Maine coast. After an all-nighter he had, twenty minutes ago, finally finished the manuscript. It was attached to an email, ready to be transmitted across the Atlantic.
Flash. The clock changed, now reading 6:01 A.M. He hit the send button. 6:01 on June 1, or 6/1. For some odd reason it seemed important to him. Not as important as, say, waiting for the summer solstice. But his research was so filled with symbolism that he felt compelled to wait the extra few minutes and indulge in a little symbolism of his own.
The message transmitted almost immediately. Eighty thousand words and dozens of photographs, across the ocean with the tap of a key. He yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. He wanted a long, hot shower and some pancakes. Then a nap with the sun on his face and Venus curled at his feet. Then he’d figure out how to get their lives back.
Twenty minutes later he stepped from the communal shower and, yawning, threw on his t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Trudging across the campground, he was surprised to see Amanda jogging toward him. “Is everything okay?” he called.
“Yes.” She stopped a car’s length away from him. “Or maybe not. There’s something you have to see.”
Carrying a bottle of shampoo and wet towel, Cam followed her past a line of recreational vehicles back to their tent, Astarte and Venus greeting him as he entered. Amanda’s laptop was open atop her closed suitcase. “This is a news feed from the BBC, from about an hour ago. Watch.”
Cam clicked the play button. A news anchor teased the story: “A prominent Middle-Eastern businessman has been found dead in Aman, Jordan. Authorities believe the man, identifie
d as Zuberi Youssef, was assassinated. Our sources indicate Youssef may have been an arms dealer and this could have been the work of Israeli intelligence operatives in retaliation for Youssef selling arms to the militant group, ISIS. More on this story as it develops.”
Cam dropped to the ground. “Wow,” was all he could muster.
Amanda sat next to him. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her blond hair blanketing his arm. “The witch is dead.”
Cam shifted to look at her. “That seems harsh. Was he really that bad?”
She shrugged. “He was an arms dealer. And as soon as he entered our lives, horrible things began happening. It will be interesting to see if those horrible things continue now that he is dead.”
As if in response to her musing, Cam’s phone rang. He pulled it from his sweatpants pocket and looked at the caller ID. “It says Zuberi,” he whispered to Amanda, as if afraid to wake the dead.
“It must be Carrington. Or maybe the authorities. Answer it.”
“Hello, this is Cameron.”
“Cameron, this is Carrington Sinclair-Youssef.” The voice was flat and distant. “Have you heard the news?”
“Yes,” he said, angling the phone so Amanda could hear. “We just heard. We are shocked. Is there anything we can do for you?” He didn’t really know what else to say. It wasn’t like they were close friends, though their lives had become intimately intertwined.
“I happened to see your email come in a few minutes ago. I wanted to thank you for that. Zuberi would have been pleased to know you completed the manuscript. I will, of course, make sure it is published.” She swallowed. “In his honor.”
“Of course.” Cam searched for the right thing to say. “I only wish I had sent it a day earlier.”
“He knew you were close to finishing, that is the important thing.” She paused, and he sensed what she was about to say was the real reason for her call. “Zuberi was not particularly religious, but he was a Muslim, which requires the body be buried as soon as is practical. The funeral therefore will be Friday, here in Edinburgh.”
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