by Alex Lukeman
"I don't know. It could be one of the terrorist groups, like Isis or Hezbollah. It could be a group of criminals looking for treasure. Until we find out more, we're guessing. I hate guessing. I want facts, something solid to go on."
"You have her address?"
"Her apartment is about ten blocks away from where she worked."
"Getting in won't be a problem. I'll use an FBI ID if I need to."
"Try to get in without being seen, but do whatever you have to."
"When do you want me to go?"
"Right away," Elizabeth said. "If she was working for a government, they'll send someone to sanitize her apartment as soon as they realize she's dead. The sooner you get in, the better."
"There are trains running all the time," Steph said. "I can be up there in a few hours."
"Good," Elizabeth said.
After Stephanie left, Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She was feeling tired, tired in mind and body. Sometimes she wished she could walk out the door and be on a warm, tropical beach somewhere, listening to the rhythm of the waves and feeling soft sand under her feet.
President Rice had hired her two years into his first term, six years ago. Before that, she'd worked in the Justice Department. She'd been assigned to the 9/11 task force, but that ended when she refused to stop pointing out glaring problems with the conclusions put forward in the report. She'd been branded as someone who wasn't a "team player," the kiss of death in an organization mired in bureaucracy and CYA politics. They'd shunted her over to a dead-end RICO investigation. That was where Rice had found her, just as she'd reached the point where she was ready to resign.
She needed a vacation, a long one, but it wasn't going to happen. Stephanie was perfectly capable of running things without her, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that she didn't know what to do with herself if she wasn't behind her desk. The vision of a tropical beach was enticing, but Elizabeth knew she'd be bored to death if she turned it into reality.
It would be different if she had someone to share it with. She wondered if she could persuade Clarence to go off with her for a weekend in the Caribbean. St. Lucia, perhaps, or Martinique. The Virgin Islands. Anywhere warm with beaches and palm trees.
Clarence Hood had turned out to be a pleasant surprise. She'd never thought an intimate relationship would bloom at this stage of her life, yet here she was, thinking how pleasant it would be to spend a few days with him in a bungalow on some secluded beach.
She took a deep breath and punched the speed dial on her phone that gave her the direct line to Hood's desk at Langley. He picked up on the second ring.
"Hood."
"Clarence, it's Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth. I was just thinking about you."
Hood had been born in Virginia. His voice had a soft hint of the south in it.
"I have an idea," Elizabeth said. "Do you think you can get away for a few days?"
"It might be possible. What's your idea?"
"How does the Caribbean sound? A few days at a nice hotel, tall drinks, the ocean and the beach right outside?"
"It sounds wonderful," Hood said.
"We could take a long weekend."
"I know a spot on St. John," Hood said. "It's private and right on a beautiful beach. Not the kind of place the tourists find."
"That sounds perfect," Elizabeth said. "When can you get away?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Hood said. "The truth is that neither one of us will ever find it easy to get away."
"How about after this current mission I'm running is finished?" Elizabeth said. "We can charter a plane, keep it on standby. We'll have our phones. If we have to, we can be back in a few hours."
She waited, trying not to think about the implications of what it would mean if he said yes. Or if he didn't.
"I think it's a great idea," Hood said. "Let me make a couple of calls. I'll check on that spot I told you about and line up a plane."
"We could leave on a Friday morning," Elizabeth said, "and come back Monday or Tuesday. That would give us three or four nights and enough time to relax."
"Relax? What's that?"
Elizabeth laughed. "That's why we need to go. I've forgotten what the word means."
"I can make that work," Hood said. "I'll make the arrangements."
"I think I still have a bathing suit somewhere," Elizabeth said.
"I have to go," Hood said. "I'll call you when everything's set."
After she'd hung up, Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, amazed that she'd called him. Amazed that she was going to go do something just for fun. She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken time off for herself, to do something that wasn't directly related to her work.
As to what that meant for her relationship with Clarence, a weekend in the islands would be a pleasant way to find out if there was more to it than a casual romance.
CHAPTER 24
It was dark by the time Stephanie got to Miriam's third floor apartment. She opened the door with a set of picks Ronnie had taught her to use. She closed the door and found herself in a small entry alcove opening onto a living room. She clicked a light switch on the wall. A lamp came on by a couch. Across the room, a window looked out on a fire escape and the wall of a brick apartment building next door.
The apartment wasn't large, which meant it was average as New York apartments went. A large apartment would have stood out. Someone working as a personal assistant wouldn't be able to afford a large place. The rent on even a small apartment in Manhattan was enough to make the payment on a good-sized mortgage in most of America.
Steph walked across the living room and pulled drapes across the window. The apartment smelled of dust and old cooking odors. She heard people laughing somewhere down the hall and a door closing. She looked around, trying to get a sense of the woman who had lived here. Who was she? Whoever she was, she wasn't Miriam Golding, a nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn.
The apartment had the feeling of a temporary place. There were no pictures on the walls, no personal items scattered about. No mementos of trips taken or places visited. It reminded her of a motel, right down to the cheap television and nondescript carpet. There were no books, no magazines, nothing to show what Miriam might have liked to study or read.
Stephanie opened a drawer in an end table by the couch. It was empty except for a blank notepad and a pencil. On a whim, she put the pad in her pocket. She pulled cushions away from the couch. She found a quarter, two dimes and a crumpled tissue.
Steph put the cushions back. A short hall led past a bedroom to a kitchen. She went to the kitchen first and turned on the light. Cockroaches scurried away on top of the counter. The counter was bare except for a coffee pot and a half-empty plastic bottle of water. The sink held a few dishes in a rack. A window over the sink looked out at the brick building next door.
The refrigerator was empty except for part of a six pack of bottled water. In the waste basket, Stephanie found more roaches and the remains of takeout from a nearby falafel joint. The kitchen cabinets revealed only generic glasses and plates.
The bathroom was neat and small. A spotted glass sat on the corner of the sink. A flowered shower curtain hung by a small tub. The medicine cabinet held a bottle of Midol, an opened package of tampons, a tube of toothpaste, a razor, a tube of antibiotic ointment and a package of assorted Band-Aids. Bottles of shampoo and conditioner sat on a wire rack hung over the shower arm. A bar of soap rested on a soap dish built into the wall of the shower.
Minimal, Stephanie thought. Everything I've seen so far is minimal, like she was just passing through. But she was working at the museum for months.
The last place to look was in the bedroom. Curtains were pulled over the window. A cheap dresser and mirror sat against the wall opposite a double bed. The bed was made. A blue cotton bedspread was stretched over it. It was the first touch of color that Stephanie had seen.
The closet in the bedroom was larger than Steph had expect
ed. Miriam had been given to plain clothes with little style. There were three pairs of black shoes on a rack, all slightly worn, all similar in style. A few long skirts, several blouses, mostly white, and a dark blue business suit hung neatly on a rod. She found jogging pants and shoes on a shelf.
Steph went through all the pockets. In the jacket of the suit, she found a piece of paper with a phone number written on it. She put the paper in her pocket. When she got back to Virginia, she'd run it through the computers.
She got down on her knees and looked under the bed. There was nothing there but dust. She lifted the mattress, in case Miriam had hidden something there. Again, there was nothing.
The last place to look was the dresser. In the movies, people often taped things behind the mirror. She checked behind it, feeling foolish. There was nothing there. On top of the dresser were a brush and comb set, a makeup kit, and a wooden jewelry box. Steph opened the box. Inside were several pairs of earrings, a few pieces of costume jewelry, and a thin gold chain with a heart-shaped locket. She opened the locket and found a picture inside of a man who looked to be somewhere in his late twenties. He had black hair, intense, dark eyes, and an engaging smile. He looked Middle Eastern, but there was no way to tell who he was or where the picture had been taken. She put the locket in her pocket.
Stephanie lifted off the top tray of the jewelry box. The bottom was empty.
There were three drawers in the dresser. She opened them one by one and took them out. There was nothing of interest in them. Socks, some underwear, a couple of T-shirts. She bent down to slide the bottom drawer back in and saw something white stuck in a cross piece on the back of the dresser.
Must've fallen from one of the other drawers.
She reached in and pulled it out. It was a black and white picture of an older couple.
Probably her parents. Or maybe grandparents. The picture looks old.
The woman was wearing a scarf over her hair. She was unsmiling. The man wasn't smiling either. He had on a dark jacket and a white shirt, open at the collar. He had a short beard shot through with gray. Gray hair curled on his chest. The picture had been taken on a city street. Part of a shop sign could be seen behind the couple, with two lines of writing. Stephanie couldn't read the writing, but she knew what it was.
Farsi. This picture must have been taken in Iran. Damn!
Steph put the picture in her pocket. She went out of the bedroom, turning off the light. She turned off the light in the kitchen and went back to the living room, turned off the light there and listened at the door. Everything was quiet. Stephanie slipped out of the apartment, shut the door behind her and walked down to the street. Half an hour later she was in Penn Station, waiting for the next train back to Washington.
CHAPTER 25
Dalir Rashidi stood at the balcony windows of his office, his hands clasped behind his back, looking out at Jordan's capital city of Amann. Outside the embassy compound, the flag of the Islamic Republic of Iran hung limp in the morning heat. A haze of gray smog cast a choking pall over the endless stream of cars crawling by outside.
Rashidi was tall, well-built. He'd dressed as usual in a black suit, with a white shirt and no tie. He was forty-seven years old, a product of the theocratic educational system installed after the revolution to replace the secular institutions that had existed under the Shah. Rashidi was a true believer in the destiny of Iran. Everyone who worked for VAJA had to be.
A large official portrait of an unsmiling Ayatollah Ruholla Khomeni hung on the wall of the office. Rashidi had seen the Supreme Leader several times before his death, but could not recall ever seeing him smile.
The eyes of the portrait seemed to bore into Rashidi's back. Rashidi's official title was cultural attaché, but he was VAJA's principal agent in Jordan, which meant he had to keep a close eye on Israel. At the moment he was considering what to say to the man sitting behind him in a brown leather armchair, sipping from a glass of orange juice.
General Abbas Javadi had flown in from Tehran after Dalir briefed him on events in the Negev.
"Well, Rashidi? I wanted to talk with you face-to-face. What do you have to say?"
Rashidi turned away from the windows to face him. He wasn't about to let this hatchet man push him around. He'd paid his dues in the Revolutionary Guard and had powerful political protection.
"You will recall that the decision to intervene before the gold was found was made against my advice," Rashidi said. "The Americans were more resourceful than we'd thought."
"We can find men to replace those who were killed, but the loss of the woman is more significant. She was part of an important operation in the land of the Great Satan."
"What operation?"
"That is no concern of yours," Javadi said. "What have you done to correct your mistake?"
Rashidi heard the words and wanted to tell this officious bureaucrat what he could do with his questions. What did he know of the difficulties one encountered in the field? He was a political general, not a true soldier. Rashidi chose not to answer Javadi directly.
"The Jews took the Americans to Ein Gedi. They are in a compound outside of the resort."
"And the gold?"
"We have the scroll," Rashidi said. "We know as much as they do. I have a team searching for the next marker as we speak. It has not yet been found. There are many caves in the mountains near Ein Gedi, but most of them have already been explored. Those that are left are high up and reached only with great difficulty."
"You are certain that Ein Gedi is where we should be looking?"
"The entire search is what the Americans would call a crapshoot. Ein Gedi seems to be the best choice, based on the marks that were found at Jabal Ideid."
Rashidi used the Islamic name for Mount Karkom.
"Seems to be?" Javadi said.
Rashidi shrugged. "Like I said, a crapshoot. I have to go on what I am told the marks mean."
"What if the marks are being misinterpreted?"
Rashidi decided to be conciliatory. "General, we can only go on what we know. We continue to study the scroll. Sooner or later, we will find our way to this treasure."
"And the Americans?"
"What would you have me do?"
"Eliminate them. This time, don't fail to do so."
Javadi hauled his bulk out of the chair.
"You have a good reputation, Rashidi. It's the only reason you have not been recalled to Tehran. The Supreme Leader himself is following your progress. Do not disappoint him."
After his tormentor had left, Rashidi opened the windows on his balcony. Better the smell of exhaust fumes than Javadi's sweat and cologne. He thought about the conversation.
Why had Javadi been concerned about the woman's death? She was only a woman, after all. She'd met a martyr's end, which was the best she could ever have expected. Javadi was a pompous fool. Mentioning a secret operation was probably a way for the man to puff himself up, to make himself look important. Well, it wasn't his concern. The Americans and finding the gold were his concerns, not the woman.
The Americans were untouchable while they were in the Israeli compound. Or were they?
Rashidi thought about it. The compound was on the edge of the desert, away from nearby buildings and houses. As far as he knew, there were only two Israeli agents on the site. It would be easy enough to send another team. Perhaps the Americans were not as safe as they thought.
They had proved to be dangerous opponents, worthy of grudging respect.
This time, his team would be prepared.
CHAPTER 26
Rivka and Selena sat on lawn chairs behind the safe house, drinking something Rivka had concocted from fresh limes and soda water, looking out toward the setting sun. Long shadows from a half dozen palm trees stretched across the lawn. The Judean desert outside the compound was bathed in color, a blaze of gold and orange and yellow and red.
"This is incredibly beautiful," Selena said. "I've seen a lot of sunsets, but this one is memorabl
e."
"The desert is beautiful," Rivka said. "Harsh, but beautiful."
Selena sipped at her drink and looked over at Rivka. She was a good-looking woman, the kind of woman that made you think of earth and sun and good times.
"Nick said you took a bullet for him. What happened?"
"That's not exactly what happened. I went up with Nick to his hotel room."
"Oh? His room?"
Rivka looked at Selena and laughed. "Don't worry, it wasn't like that. Although I admit, I was attracted to him."
"Mmm," Selena said.
"There'd been trouble. Your President was in the hotel. Nick had left a telltale on the door of his room. When we got there, it had been moved. It meant someone had been inside."
"I assume it wasn't the maid," Selena said, "or there wouldn't be much to this story."
"No, it wasn't the maid."
Rivka rubbed the old wound where the bullet had struck her, an unconscious gesture.
"Anyway, he opened the door. We had our guns out. At first we didn't see anything, then someone stepped out and began shooting at us. That's when I got hit. The shooter was killed."
"I remember Nick telling me about it after he got back," Selena said.
"The shooter was there to get Nick," Rivka said. "He was the one who was supposed to get shot. That's why he says I took a bullet for him, but really, it was only because I happened to be there."
"Well, I'm glad you were," Selena said.
She raised her glass in a toast and drained it.
"This would be a lot better if it had vodka in it."
"There's some in the kitchen."
"Much as I'd like to, I'm not drinking. I'm pregnant."
"I didn't know that," Rivka said. "You're not showing. When are you due?"
"About seven months from now. At least it won't be the middle of winter. It looks like he might be a Leo."
"He?"
"Or she," Selena said. "We don't know yet."
"I envy you," Rivka said. "It's hard to find a real partner, doing the work that we do."
