by John Weisman
He edged forward. “Please…” The DST agent gave Tom a long and dirty look. But he finally gestured as if to say, C’mon, and Tom crawled over to his friend.
Shahram’s eyes were open. But they were already clouded. Tom lifted the old man off the cold concrete and cradled his head in his lap. He looked down at his left hand. It was wet—covered with blood. He wiped the hand on his jacket.
Tom began to see spots in front of his eyes. The world started to turn black and white. Tom hyperventilated, fighting to remain conscious. From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the raucous hee-hawing of sirens approaching. It had begun to drizzle. He hunched over, to protect his friend from the raindrops, and regained control over his own body. Carefully, he brushed hair away from the Iranian’s forehead. Then he slipped his hand over Shahram’s face and tenderly closed his eyes.
10
18 OCTOBER 2003
8:35 A . M .
17 RUE RAYNOUARD, PARIS
MJ USED ONE OF THE FOUR KEYS on her Arc de Triomphe souvenir key chain to open the heavy wood door that led into the courtyard hidden behind the gray stone facade of the six-story apartment building. She held the door open with her shoulder, shifted her huge purse, which had slipped off her shoulder, back where it belonged, and muscled her carry-on through the opening. Carefully, she leaned against the door to press it closed, then rolled the suitcase across the flagstones to a second door, which led into the small foyer just past the concierge’s apartment, where the antique elevator shaft ascended up through the stairwell.
She watched as the cagelike ascenseur descended. MJ was more than a little upset. More than a little? Hell—she was fuming. The day had begun with Mrs. Sin-Gin. It had ended with a horrendous flight. The plane was full—every single seat occupied. There were long stretches of turbulence that kept everyone buckled in, nervous, and claustrophobic. Worst of all, her seat back hadn’t reclined, not at all. And so she’d been condemned to sit straight up, the seat in front of her barely six inches from her nose, for the entire eight hours.
Her arrival at de Gaulle was no better. The passport control lines had been endless—only one surly agent on duty for the hundreds of bedraggled travelers from half a dozen flights that had touched down simultaneously. Her bag? It was the last one on the carousel, naturellement. Worst of all, Tom had been supposed to meet her, but he hadn’t. Instead, as she disem-barked she’d been paged, then handed a message.
Something’s come up, it read tersely. See you at the apartment. He hadn’t even bothered to dictate his name or say he was sorry.
And so, instead of a comfortable ride in Tom’s Jaguar, she’d rolled her suitcase to the Air France ticket counter, paid her ten euros, waited inside the dank terminal for almost thirty minutes, then climbed aboard a boxy red, white, and blue bus with thirty other loners and sat, getting more and more depressed by the minute, as the steamy-windowed vehicle lumbered through the chill drizzle first to Porte Maillot, then on to Étoile. There, she’d stood in the rain listening to her hair frizz, enduring another fifteen minutes of hell until she was finally able to snag a cab for the seven-minute ride to rue Raynouard.
MJ wrestled the sliding gate open, smacked the elevator door with her suitcase, and emerged into darkness. She fumbled around until she found the minuterie switch and pressed it, relieved when the corridor lit up. She pulled her bag out of the elevator and allowed the narrow door to swing closed. She turned to her left and was halfway down the hallway when she stopped, said, “Goddamn French elevators,” let go of the suitcase, trudged back the way she’d come, yanked the stupid French door open so she could slam the stupid open-it-yourself French gate shut so all the other damn French could use the damn French elevator.
Of course the lights went out just as she’d let the elevator door hiss closed. She cursed under her breath, found the minuterie button, pressed it, and, soggy sneakers squeaking on the marble floor, finally made her way to the end of the hallway, let herself in, and double-locked the metal door behind her.
She turned on the lights and looked around. Nothing had changed. She walked to the window and looked across the rooftops toward the Eiffel Tower, whose crown disappeared in the morning mist. At least that was still here. MJ stared for perhaps half a minute, finding the sight hugely therapeutic. Then she turned away and rolled her suitcase into the bedroom.
Propped on the pillow was a huge shopping bag from Louis Vuitton, to which was taped an envelope on which was written Marilyn Jean. She opened the envelope. There was a card inside. It was from Tom. It said, I love you all the world, MJ.
From the shopping bag she removed a heavy rectangular Vuitton box, tied with brown-and-gold ribbon. She untied the bow and took the cover off the box. Inside, under a layer of perfectly folded tissue paper, sat a brown backpack, trimmed in leather, with gold hardware and patterned with Vuitton’s trademark interlocking golden LVs. It was absolutely gorgeous. She examined the bag minutely. Minibackpacks were all the rage in Washington. She’d get incredible use out of it. How wonderful. How exotic. And how expensive.
Carefully, MJ replaced the backpack in its box and set it aside. She set her suitcase on the bed and unzipped it so she could unpack her toilet kit. In order of preference, she wanted a long hot shower, a cup of fresh-brewed coffee, and—despite the fantastic backpack—a detailed damn explanation from him.
It being the day from hell, however, she soon discovered that the hot water lasted only a miserly six minutes, and that Tom was clean out of coffee. But being MJ, which meant she was resourceful, she adapted. By 10:15, the new backpack slung over her shoulder, she’d reconnoitered the cluster of stores around the Place de Costa Rica and bought enough essentials to last them the weekend. By noon, when she heard Tom’s key in the door, she was enjoying her third mug of perfect café au lait and her second, sinful pain au chocolat.
“Tom, what a wonderful, wonderful gift. It was perfect because I had the most awful—oh, my God.” He looked as if he’d been in a brawl. His shirt was askew. His trousers were ripped at the knees. His jacket had stains all over the front.
Before she could say another word, he held up his hand like a traffic cop, dropped his overcoat onto the floor, and lurched for the kitchen, pulling his jacket off as he went. He ran water onto his hands and, heedless that his clothes were getting soaked, scrubbed messily at his face, neck, and hair. He fumbled blindly until he found a kitchen towel and wiped himself dry. He finally turned around and saw her standing in the doorway. He draped the towel on the sink and ran a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. “I’m sorry, love. It’s been a bear of a night. Pour me about three fingers of cognac, will you? I’m going to get out of these clothes and climb into a shower.”
3:45 P.M. They were lying on the bed, covered by a thick duvet. He’d stood under the shower for nearly a quarter hour while she busied herself, not wanting to pry. He’d finally emerged, a towel wrapped around his middle, clutching the empty cognac glass. He appeared so ingenuously vulnerable in that instant that MJ was able to picture him as a little boy.
His knees were scraped raw and bright red. The scabs were going to be enormous. She noted that the whole right side of his rib cage was bruised—a mottled mélange of purple, yellow, and sickly green that stretched from his chest to his waist. When she asked what had happened, he said someone had kicked him by mistake.
He’d padded into the living room, refilled his glass from the bottle on the oval, Art Deco rolling brass-and-glass bar, and downed it in a single gulp.
“Was it that bad?”
“Worse.” He’d poured a third shot, drunk it, then gone and collapsed on the bed. She’d lain down next to him and caressed his shoulder. Half an hour later they’d made love.
He snuggled close and kissed the back of her neck. “I’m sorry, love.”
She rolled over and stared into his eyes. “For what?”
“I never even asked how you are.”
“You were preoccupied.”
“
I’m not preoccupied now.”
Except he was. She could see it. His face was a mask. His eyes were cold—murderous. The veins on his forehead were throbbing. She’d never seen him like this. MJ decided to take the easy way out. “I’m fine. And I love my backpack.”
He kissed her. “They’re all the rage here.” He paused and looked into her eyes. “Sure you’re okay?”
“I don’t want to bother you. We have so little time…”
His expression softened. He kissed her. “MJ…”
She pulled herself up, reached for the shirt she’d draped over the bedpost, and shrugged into it. “Well, if you really want to know, it’s been a horrible week for me, too.”
He’d surmised as much. “Mrs. Sin-Gin again?”
“I’m not sure how much longer I can take it. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want me to do my job.”
He grunted. “You know you always have someplace to go.”
She looked over at him. “No, Tom, I’m serious.” She bit her lower lip. “Can I show you something?”
“Always.”
“But it’s just for you, Tom. Your eyes only. Not to share.” She waited for him to say something.
When he didn’t, she said, “I’m serious.”
Finally, he said, “My eyes only, MJ.”
“Okay.” MJ wrapped herself in the shirt more tightly, slipped out of the bed, and padded into the living room. Thirty seconds later she was back, a manila envelope clasped to her bosom. “I spent a whole day on this—for nothing.” She flipped the sealed envelope onto his lap. “She refused even to look at it.”
He pulled a small pocketknife out of the top drawer of the bedside table, used it to slit the top flap, and extracted a dozen photographs. He examined the first three. “Gaza—the embassy Suburban.”
She nodded. “I was just trying to be creative. You know—think outside the box. Oh, Tom, it’s so hard to work when the person you’re working for doesn’t have the faintest idea about—”
And then she saw his face, and realized he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He was zoning.
She curled around his shoulder to see what he was looking at. It was the blowup of the six bodyguards. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He let the photo drop onto the duvet. “MJ,” he said, his face as somber as she’d ever seen it, “tell me exactly what you were doing. Exactly, and why. And then tell me what the reaction was at Langley. Down to the tiniest detail.”
V
HERZLYIA
11
19 OCTOBER 2003
4:35 P . M .
BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL
AIR FRANCE 1620 ARRIVED HALF AN HOUR LATE. As the plane emerged from the opaque wall of cloud cover, MJ pressed her nose against the window listening to the whine as the pilot extended his flaps and descended quickly over an Israeli coast lit brilliant orange red by the setting sun. She’d expected…well, she hadn’t known what to expect. Camels and tents maybe, or some sort of Mediterranean Lower East Side. Certainly not the seawall of high-rises and glass-and-steel skyscrapers that looked a lot more Miami than her mind’s eye picture of Tel Aviv. Then the plane banked sharply over scrub-covered hills, descended rapidly, and landed. They rode a jam-packed shuttle bus to the terminal, passed without incident through passport control, claimed their baggage, then fought their way through the crowd into the bustling terminal itself.
Tom guided her through double doors, then steered her around a squad of soldiers, M-16s slung over their shoulders, along a wide swath of sidewalk that smelled of diesel fumes, sweat, and smoke. At the far end of the terminal they bumped their wheeled suitcases over the curb and scampered across three lanes of fast-moving traffic to a small asphalt island on the far side of the roadway. There, in a clearly marked no-parking zone, sat a white Jeep Cherokee trimmed in gold.
The driver saw them coming. He extracted himself from the vehicle, strode toward them, threw his arms around Tom, and kissed him thrice in the Arab fashion. “Ahlan, Tom,” he said. “Ahlan wahsalan. Welcome back to Israel, my friend.”
“Reuven. Good to see you.” Tom put his hand on MJ’s back and propelled her forward. “Reuven, this is my friend MJ.”
The Israeli’s eyes scanned her professionally and his expression left no doubt he’d sensed her shock. He took her hand and kissed it in the European fashion. She couldn’t help but notice that he favored a lot of sweet and slightly citrus-scented cologne.
He slowly withdrew his lips from her hand but never let it go. “I am Reuven Ayalon.” The Israeli smiled warmly, his dark eyes locked with hers. His accent was unmistakably French. “You are most welcome to Israel, beautiful MJ.”
She blushed. The intensity of his gaze was making her uneasy. “Thank you,” she stammered. MJ couldn’t help but stare back at him. He was a fascinating picture; almost a caricature. Tall and dark, but soft around the middle, he was dressed entirely in black: black silk shirt open halfway down his chest, baggy black trousers, and shiny black tasseled loafers. His coal-black hair was, on second glance, a perfectly coiffed and hugely expensive hairpiece, which was balanced below by the same sort of well-manicured mustache and triangular goatee favored by Saudi royalty. Around Reuven’s neck hung a heavy-linked gold chain. His left wrist held a thick gold Rolex whose bezel was implanted with diamonds at the three-, six-, nine-, and twelve-o’clock positions. On Reuven’s right wrist was an oversize diamond-accented gold ID bracelet with Hebrew lettering.
Tom opened the rear door for her and helped her in as Reuven tossed their suitcases in the back and slammed the cargo door shut. Tom eased into the shotgun seat and cinched his seat belt. “I know Reuven from Paris,” he explained. “He was with the Israeli embassy. We covered some of the same ground. Now he works for 4627.”
“Uh-huh.” It wasn’t what MJ wanted to hear. The fact that she was in Israel was bad enough. Israel wasn’t on the itinerary Mrs. SJ required her to file before she’d left Coppermine. And now she’d met an Israeli foreign intelligence officer. It didn’t matter that he was retired, either. In fact, just sitting in his car was enough of a no-no to jeopardize her Top Secret clearance.
Tom swiveled. “Hey…just relax and enjoy the scenery. You’re gonna love this place.” It was as if he’d read her mind.
And of course he was right. What’s done is done, is what her father always said. Besides, this was all her own doing. Her clearance was already in jeopardy—hadn’t she removed the Gaza photographs from the office? Hadn’t she brought them for Tom to see? Hadn’t—her reverie was shattered as Reuven Ayalon slammed the Jeep into gear, smacked pedal to metal, and fishtailed toward the airport exit, cutting off a huge bus without a second thought or any hint of a glance at the rearview mirror.
The Israeli raced past a security checkpoint manned by khaki-clad troops and in a matter of seconds the Jeep was on a modernistic four-lane highway bordered by cotton fields and orange groves. The Jeep flew west into the disappearing light, Reuven signaling with his horn and weaving in and out of the thick evening traffic as if he were drunk-driving the Daytona500. MJ glanced at the dash. Mother of God, he was doing 155 kilometers an hour. Instinctively, she reached over her right shoulder for the seat belt. There was no seat belt.
They hurtled through a long underpass and came out under Tel Aviv. Reuven passed a police car on the right, veered into an exit lane, and steered the Jeep onto another freeway. MJ saw a solid wall of brake lights ahead. The gridlock didn’t faze Reuven, who steered the Jeep onto the narrow shoulder of the road, leaned on the horn, and just kept going. When the Jeep skidded on some loose gravel, fishtailed, and almost hit the guardrail, she actually screamed. When Tom caught a glimpse of her horrified expression, he laughed out loud.
5:55 P.M. Reuven Ayalon sped north along the Herzlyia beachfront, swerved right, and accelerated into a narrow side street past a sign that bore the words KEDOSHAI HASHOAH. Two hundred feet later he pulled up onto the garage apron of a walled three-story villa. A foot-square antique ti
le set into the wall next to the mail slot was emblazoned with the number 71 and Hebrew lettering.
Reuven switched off the lights and set the parking brake. “Home sweet home.”
Tom looked confused. “I thought you told me you’d made us reservations.”
“I did,” the Israeli said. “At the Ayalon Hilton. You get your own suite.”
“We don’t want to put you out.”
“Out? Me? I welcome the company. Ever since Leah died, I’ve become un reclus.” He turned toward MJ. “A bit of a hermit. You know she was killed in a homicide bombing last year.”
“Tom told me. I’m so sorry.”
He nodded. “Thank you. It was why when Tom asked me to join his firm I couldn’t say no.” Reuven opened the Jeep’s rear gate, yanked MJ’s suitcase onto the concrete, and extended the handle. “So you’re staying here—I don’t accept arguments. My boys are both married. They have their own lives. Believe me, I crave adult company.” He waited as Tom retrieved his own suitcase. “Look—for the last ten days or so, I’ve begun asking the dogs for investment advice. What worries me is that they’re starting to make sense.”
To the sound of muffled barking, Reuven led the way to a tall, wide, eggplant-colored metal gate. He punched a code into the keypad that sat at eye level, waited until the gate lock buzzed, then nudged it with his shoulder. “Bou—come. Follow me.”
He led the way. MJ was impressed. The thick, razor-wire-topped wall was covered in bougainvillea and wild roses. The pathway from the gate to the front door was made of textured stones and bordered in ground cover. There were palm trees and lemon trees and Roman columns all lit by accent lights. A millstone, also beautifully illuminated, rested against the far end of the garden wall. To its right, near a huge dining table protected by a tent-like covering, sat a terra-cotta urn that had to be six feet high. MJ was entranced. “This is breathtaking, Reuven.”
